


The Last Ingredient

by WindSurfBabe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindSurfBabe/pseuds/WindSurfBabe
Summary: "They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for." - Tom Bodett.Having lost her home to dragonfire, Brea strives to make a new life for herself in Dale. Only one ingredient is missing to achieve happiness, but in a world at war, love is a rare commodity.Fíli/OC
Relationships: Fíli (Tolkien) & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.  
> AU: Thorin is dead, his nephews are not. Some liberties were taken with Dáin's character in comparison to Tolkien's description.  
> Warning: some foul language (we are speaking of dwarves, after all).

Chapter 1

_“The Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone, the King Beneath the Mountain, shall come into his own. And the bells shall ring in gladness, at the Mountain King's return, But all shall fail in sadness, and the Lake will shine and burn.”_

_J.R.R. Tolkien_

oOoOoOo

_October 1st, T.A. 2941_

The mighty roar was heard from across the lake. It echoed against the town walls, invading the streets, and within minutes there wasn’t a house in Laketown where the windows hadn’t been thrown open. The inhabitants peered at each other in fear before turning their eyes towards the Lonely Mountain. Brea was no exception, leaning out of the second story window of their narrow house to check the sky. She was halfway out of the casement when her aunt Mildred voiced her disagreement : “No further, darling, please.” 

Brea shot her a look through narrowed eyes, amazed as always at her hearing abilities, which had much developed ever since her aunt had lost her eyesight. “I’m fine, Ma.” She relented anyway, choosing instead to nibble at her thumbnail to relieve her apprehension. “What was that, you think?”

Her aunt shrugged. “I do hope that was the last breath of that damned dragon.” Mildred was a firm believer in the tales of old, the ones that promised gold and prosperity to Esgaroth should the King under the Mountain return. This belief was the source of frequent, if not serious, arguments between her and Brea. In fact, their last squabble had happened just a few days prior, on the night the dwarves had come into town. Brea hadn’t liked the company one bit. The bedraggled, freezing flock of dwarves seemed too modest and hungry to be able to defeat Smaug, and seemed like trouble rather than glory.

Brea grimaced. “Didn’t sound dying to me,” she surmised. “More like… furious.” She chewed on her nail. At that very instant, a gust of wind swept in from the Long Lake, though the afternoon had been still and foggy. The air stank of rotting weed and, more strangely, of smoke. Even Brea could smell it.

In the house across the canal her neighbors suddenly pointed north, towards the Lonely Mountain. “The lights !” they shouted, “The lake is glowing!” Their words were picked up and repeated before the yelling grew louder: “It’s the dragon! The dragon is coming!”

Brea threw the shutters closed and rushed to the armchair where her aunt sat. The older woman’s face had grown pale at the news. She grabbed Mildred’s arm with more force than she would’ve liked, startling the older woman. “Get up, Ma,” she commanded with urgency, “We need to leave.”

There was no time at all to gather any belongings, she decided. Hauling her aunt down the stairs by the arm, she rushed onto the wooden walkway that ran from house to house along the murky waters of the canal. Mildred didn’t protest and clutched her tightly in return, trembling like a leaf on a windy day. They stumbled on the slippery planks, and almost fell into the greenish swill.

“Careful!” an arm shot out to steady them and she grabbed it out of instinct. The worn-out coat under her fingers felt familiar.

“Bard !” she breathed out in relief. The bargeman could be their way out of Laketown. “Where is your boat?”

He barely glanced at her, his narrowed eyes fixed on the darkening sky. Brea noticed that he carried his bow. “By the house.” He focused on her again. “Brea, you have to find my children and leave. You take the boat if you take them. Do we have a deal?”

“You’re not coming?” she balked, but another deafening roar rolled over the town and her words went unheard.

“Go, now!” He freed his sleeve from her grasp and stalked away.

A shimmering light illuminated his retreating figure, drawing her attention towards the northern districts. The houses closest to the Mountain were aflame. A gigantic shadow crossed the sky above and Brea felt her knees go weak in terror. Screams erupted all around them. People pushed their boats into the water, throwing what belongings they wanted to save inside. Others ran, or simply jumped from windows and bridges into the canal to escape the fire. Smaug’s name was on everyone’s lips.

The dragon circled Laketown, as if choosing its next target. A stream of white flame leaped from his open jaws, crashed against the wooden roofs and cut them down like butter. Smoke filled the air, hiding the flames from view for a split second.

Brea twisted her head, looking for a way through the chaos. Bard’s house was only a few alleys from here, yet the distance seemed colossal. The air was infused with smoke, carried by the gusts of wind from Smaug’s wings. Brea choked and started coughing, doubling over in her attempt to breathe again. 

“Brea? Brea, darling! Where are you?” she heard her aunt call out in panic. In her predicament Brea had torn free from her grip, and now Mildred was grasping at the air with both hands, trying to locate her niece. Her unseeing eyes were staring right at her. 

Brea held her breath to calm the spasms in her lungs. Her body craved air, and she had to repress the urge to breathe in before the contractions subsided. She reached out to catch one of Mildred’s hands and rest them on her arm again. “I’m here, Ma. Just a cough, it’s nothing. I’m unhurt.” Linking her arm with her aunt’s, she pulled her along the walkway. 

All around them, ashes and embers fell like snow, the air hot as a summer day. Her own eyelashes were covered in grey fluff. When Brea wiped her eyes, the sting of smoke made them water. The dragon breathed fire again, this time it was the south of the city he inflamed. The high tower of the town hall turned into a torch. Buildings groaned as they burned, the beams twisted and moved. Bard’s house was very near now, right around the corner of a house that leaned precariously towards the canal, looming above the boardwalk. Flames streamed from the windows, licking the facade. 

They hammered on the door and shouted until it opened and the frightened face of Bard’s oldest daughter peered out at them. “Sigrid!” Brea breathed out, “You have to come with us! Where are your siblings?”

The door opened wider, and Brea couldn’t help but stare. The room had been upturned. Broken furniture lay strewn everywhere, save for the table, upon which lay a dwarf. Three other dwarves surrounded him. Grim, bearded faces peered at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. Much to her relief, Bain and Tilda were there as well.

Brea decided against asking questions. “Let’s go!” she commanded, reaching out to the children. “We’ll take your father’s boat.”

“We cannot abandon them!” Sigrid pleaded. “Kíli is wounded, we cannot leave him here!”

“I won’t leave without my father!” Bain grunted.

“Your father asked me to come get you,” Brea snapped back. Tilda wailed at her tone and buried her face in her brother’s chest. 

“Come on, love.” Mildred’s voice was calm and soothing. “We promised your father we’d come help you. He’s worried about you, he asked Brea to come here.” The girl looked up, sniffling, from her brother’s arms.

“That’s right, your Da asked you to come with us,” Brea hurried to agree. “He’s got a boat tied up by the house, we can all escape but you have to come with us, now. You too, Bain. Bard would want you to take care of your sisters.” That last sentence wasn’t a complete lie. Bard had requested that she find all of his children, even though at sixteen Bain was now more a man than a boy.

“All right, Bain, Tilda, let’s go,” Sigrid commanded, staring her brother down. She reminded Brea of Bard and his noble bearing. Bain obeyed sullenly, pushing Tilda towards the door. “But they’re coming too.”

The dwarves were looking at them. Brea saw a hopeful look on the face of one of them but none spoke, expecting her answer. She thought of the chaos outside, and the distance to be covered before they’d reach open water. They’d need strong arms to man the boat and to defend them if need be.

“Fine,” she nodded. “Come, all, quickly!”

The wounded dwarf hobbled to his feet, helped by one of his comrades. He looked young by human standards, a few years younger than herself. Unlike the other dwarves she’d seen he lacked a beard, but what he did not possess his comrades compensated. The second youngest dwarf sported a golden mustache, braided and decorated with beads. Another had a greying beard woven in coils. The fourth dwarf wore an extravagant hat lined with fur. Brea assumed that they’d been part of the company that had arrived in Esgaroth a few days’ past.

They shambled towards the small pier by the edge of the house, where Bard’s little skiff was tied up. Brea helped her aunt over the gunwale and onto a wooden bench. Sigrid and Tilda followed, huddled together. Tilda was crying again.

“Shh, dear, come.” Her aunt extended her arms towards the sound, and the youngest girl hurried into the embrace. 

Mildred had been there when Tilda was born, and when her mother had passed away in childbirth. The tragedy had forged a special bond between the two women. Yet her aunt had seldom left the house after that, leaving to Brea to tend to the mothers-to-be. It was not much after Tilda’s birth that Mildred had admitted to her loss of eyesight, and Brea had always wondered about the role guilt played in her seclusion.

The dwarves piled into the boat, followed by Bain. The youngest, Kíli, grunted in pain as the skiff rocked and hit the pier. She shoved the oars into the hands of the blond dwarf. “Here,” she said. “I’m sure you’re stronger than me. Now get us out of here!”

Burning timber fell around them, and the air was thick with smoke. The canals of the city were packed with barges, dinghies and makeshift rafts, all of them striving to leave the dying town. The dwarf pulled hard on the oars, maneuvering them around until they reached the main waterway. The town gates loomed ahead, smoldering but still intact.

“Bain!”

The cry startled her. Brea looked around to see the boy leap out of their boat and into a barge tied up nearby. He hopped towards the bow and onto the closest dock.

“Bain!” Sigrid screamed, trying to get up. The skiff rocked precariously, Tilda cried out in fright. Brea saw her aunt grasp the gunwale with an ashen hand while she held the youngest girl close.

“Sigrid, no!” Brea spun around and grabbed the girl’s wrist. “Sit!” she ordered, pulling her down, “Or we’ll all keel over.” Sigrid was sobbing. “Think of your sister, think of us.” She cast a hopeless look towards the burning district. “Bain is strong, your father has taught him well. He’ll be all right.”

The open water of the lake awaited them beyond the blackened gates. Brea breathed in relief when she saw that the portcullis was open. Behind them, the last of the Laketown wooden buildings crumbled and crackled in the heat of dragonfire. Her consolation was short-lived. Bard had stayed in Esgaroth. Knowing his determination, he had likely gone to fight off Smaug, foolish as that may have seemed. What could an arrow do against dragon’s armor ? Here she was, escaping to safety in his own boat with only two of his three children. 

Brea, too, had a special relationship with the bargeman’s family. When she’d been only fifteen, she had assisted her aunt during the birthing of Bain. This hadn’t been the first childbirth she’d helped with, but it remained one of the most memorable. The future father’s refusal to leave his wife’s side had left her wistful. Many a husband preferred to be absent for the duration of the birth, choosing not to see the blood or hear the pain it cost to bring a child into this world. Some of them celebrated the arrival of their son or daughter with their friends while their wife toiled away in their bed. Where she often saw indifference, Bard had showed her tenderness. Since that day Brea had felt something of a crush for the dark-haired bargeman.

She wiped her stinging eyes and turned around to watch the city crumble. Her whole life had been there. She’d been born in one of the houses by the port, had married in the city hall and spent many a year in the narrow streets and within the wooden walls of Esgaroth. Now she was homeless, another refugee fleeing the destruction of their hometown at the eve of winter.

The roar that reached their ears was nothing compared to the dragon’s fury earlier that day. This sound was a scream, laced with suffering and rage. Brea’s eyes darted towards the sky. High above the lake, the dragon contorted in agony. His enormous wings flailed helplessly as he fell, plummeting into the bonfire he had lit. The remaining houses exploded under his weight, sending wooden splinters the size of their skiff to rain on the survivors.

Brea ducked and pushed her aunt’s head down as well as the older woman croaked : “Gods, what was that ?”

“The dragon is dead, Ma,” she whispered. And deep inside she knew : “Bard has killed him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”_

_John Steinbeck_

oOoOoOo

_October 2_ _ nd _ _, T.A. 2941_

The only sound they heard for a long time was the splash of the oars on the lake and the crackling of the fires behind them. The hat-wearing dwarf had taken over the rowing once they’d passed the gates. They aimed for the closest shore, but it was difficult to navigate in the dark.

The night had fallen. The temperatures had dropped, and Brea felt her teeth chatter in the cold. Sigrid, Tilda and her aunt had started shivering as well, their clothes ill-suited for the season. The night promised to be long and bitter.

They huddled together in pairs : Mildred and Tilda, Sigrid and Brea. Bard’s oldest daughter wept against her shoulder, her body shaking with sobs. Brea could only hold her close. In all likelihood she’d just lost her father and brother in the same night, becoming an orphan and the oldest in the family. Tilda’s fate was Sigrid’s responsibility now, and she was only fifteen.

They all remained silent as they got further and further away from the blaze. The wind carried the sounds of the burning town, and Brea could sometimes distinguish voices crying for help. Yet there was nothing anyone of them could do: the boat was full. 

“Here, take this.” Brea was startled when one of the dwarves spoke. She looked up to see the blond dwarf present her with his cloak. His braided mustache moved in the flickering light. “Take it. It’s not much but it’ll keep you warm,” he insisted. Brea was about to refuse when she noticed that his older companion had already pulled his own cloak from his back and draped it around her aunt and Tilda’s shoulders.

“Thank you.” She wrapped the cloak around herself and Sigrid.

“I am Fíli,” he murmured. “At your service.” 

The other dwarves took it as a signal to introduce themselves as well. “Oín, at your service,” said the oldest dwarf. 

“Bofur, at your service and the service of your family,” finished the last one. He’d pulled off his hat, and the hair beneath was braided and matted with sweat.

“We owe you our lives,” Mildred said, her voice quiet but sure. She reminded Brea of the confident woman she’d used to be, before illness had stolen her eyesight and her talents with it. “You’ve helped us escape, my niece and I, and these poor children. I am very grateful for your presence.” 

Fíli bowed his head, but the gesture went unnoticed by Mildred, who looked ahead, stroking Tilda’s hair and oblivious to any movement around her. Brea saw the dwarf frown. Their eyes met and she held his stare, daring him to say anything about her aunt. He didn’t, which at least indicated a decent education.

They spoke no more, only the rhythmic strokes of the oars on the water broke the silence. As time went by the shore appeared in the distance through the smoke. Fires had been lit here and there, and Bofur directed the boat towards the closest one.

The cold had made Brea sleepy. She fought the exhaustion with all her willpower, reminding herself what a precarious situation she was in. A fragile little boat filled half with men she barely knew and didn’t trust, and half with people who needed her help. She had to stay strong and alert. Yet she dozed away, lulled into sleep by the swaying movement of the skiff. It was the noise of a scuffle that shook her awake. 

“Kíli, enough,” someone was saying. Her heart pounded as she fought to remember where she was. The boat. The dragon. There’d been dwarves as well. Fíli.

“I can do my share,” Kíli protested. His pale face wore signs of exhaustion and blood loss, but he didn’t seem to suffer from his wound. Fíli was having none of it.

“No, brother,” he shook his head. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Kíli did not seem convinced, and it took some more insistence to appease him. She could sense that Fíli was getting annoyed at his stubbornness. His protective behavior towards his brother led her to believe that Kíli must be the youngest of the two.

Brea mused that she’d been lucky to escape with all the family she had left. Her aunt had raised her and taught her all she knew, supporting her through every trial life had given her while enduring her own. She felt responsible for Mildred much as Fíli seemed to be for his brother, mayhap even more so in the absence of the other dwarves. She realized in dismay that the rest of the company could’ve remained in Esgaroth during the attack.

“Where are your companions?” she blurted out to Kíli and Fíli. She understood at once how foolish it sounded but she couldn’t stop now. “Were they…?” She nodded awkwardly towards the city. 

“Our uncle left for Erebor two days ago,” Fíli replied, glancing at his brother. “Kíli took a poisoned arrow during our escape from Mirkwood,” he added. “Oín stayed to take care of him, and Bofur…”

“I was drunk.”

“Passed out drunk,” Fíli confirmed. “Uncle left him behind.”

Brea took some time to process what he’d said. There were many questions she wanted to ask, though the time was not right to do so. The crucial part was that their uncle and their friends were at the Lonely Mountain when Smaug had taken flight. That did not bode well for them, but she didn’t voice her concerns this time. She was certain that everyone in the boat knew what it meant. Even Mildred, usually very enthusiastic about the prophecy of the King under the Mountain, kept quiet.

As they neared the coast, more and more people from town joined them. Some were huddled in their boats, entire families fleeing the destruction of Laketown. Some were bucketing water out of their leaking dinghies so that they wouldn’t sink before reaching the shore. Some had abandoned their boats to swim. Of those they saw several. Some were still clutching wooden beams, cold bodies frozen in place. Others floated face down and some of the dead were facing up, their unseeing eyes fixed upon the sky. 

Whenever they passed another corpse, Brea would hold Sigrid closer. Her aunt could not do the same for Tilda, but thankfully the girl had fallen into an exhausted slumber, rocked by the movement of the skiff. Brea dreaded to recognize a face amongst those who had died on the lake. She saw Bard in every long-haired man they passed, Bain in every boy. She noticed a girl younger than Tilda, drifting on a wooden plank. She was curled up with her knees against her chest, a toy clutched in her small hands. Her lips were blue. She was the daughter of a baker, born on a rainy night in a little room above the shop.

Brea swallowed with difficulty, loath to move and disturb Sigrid. At first she’d allowed herself to relieve her anxiety by doing what she usually did, but her fingers were bleeding profusely within minutes. She tried to control herself by clutching harder at the gunwale until her fingers went numb. Suddenly she felt a warm hand on her own. Fíli was looking at her from his bench, his large hand covering hers. With gentle movements he pried her fingers from the cold wood and entwined them with his own. Her blood smeared his skin but he didn’t seem to care. 

oOoOoOo

The bottom of the boat scraped the stony lake bed, waking Tilda and startling them all. Since the shore was still a few yards away, they’d be forced to hop out into the freezing water to reach it. Fíli gently disentangled his fingers from hers, while Sigrid left her side to help her sister. The dwarves disembarked noisily, swearing at the cold.

Brea shuddered when she found herself knee-deep in icy water. Her skirts soaked it up and she struggled to walk. Much to her relief, Bofur helped her aunt out of the boat, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to safety. They stumbled and slipped until they were out of the lake, and Brea saw Fíli and Oín pull the skiff to shore.

The fires were smaller than she’d hoped for. The survivors were gathering around them but there were more people than there was space in the warmth. Boats were beached, and the ones that had suffered the most damage were taken apart for firewood. Someone had lain out blankets and cloaks to dry before the campfires and several women were handing them out to the wounded or the elderly, but of those too there was not enough for everyone. Brea pulled Fíli’s cloak closer around her shoulders and looked around, searching for a familiar face.

“Brea! Milly! Here!” someone waved frantically from across the fire. Brea breathed in relief when she recognized her.

“Alva !” She led her aunt towards the older woman, who embraced Mildred before taking Brea into her arms as well.

“Alva,” Mildred said hoarsely, “Thank the Gods. Are you all right? How are the little ones?” She paused. “How’s Pieter?”

“Thank the Gods he’s alive,” Alva replied, looking back to where her husband sat. His arm was bandaged in a crude manner and he seemed in pain but otherwise unharmed. “We escaped the town but barely, we have Erik and his barge to thank for that.” Pieter was a fisherman, but his boat was old and leaky. Erik was one of Bard’s competitors, poling goods in and out of Laketown for a living.

“Speaking of barges, where is Bard?” Alva asked. She frowned when she saw Sigrid and Tilda approach. “Where is Bain?” The girls choked at the mention of the names and teared up. Alva blanched. “Oh dears,” she muttered, “Oh my poor dears.”

Brea blinked back tears as well. “Bard stayed behind to fight off Smaug,” she croaked.

“Fight off the dragon?” Alva cursed. “By himself?! Has he gone mad?”

“Shut up, woman. I saw him!” some man in the crowd shouted. “I saw it with mine own eyes. Bard killed the dragon !” His words drew doubtful muttering from the crowd. 

“Shut up yourself,” Alva spat. “You wouldn’t recognize your balls if even you could see them over your gut.” Some townsfolk seemed to be of a mind with her, but others wanted to know more.

“I saw him too! He was shooting at it with the windlance!” someone else yelled out. “He killed it with the Black Arrow!”

Ever more voices joined him, claiming to have witnessed Bard defeat the dragon. Soon the crowd was in uproar. “Bard! Bard!” they chanted. “King Bard!” someone cheered, and the words gained power. “King Bard!” the survivors of Laketown called out. Brea watched in astonishment as the freezing, desperate people seemed to find a rallying cause. “Where is he? Enough of townmasters and paper-pushers, where is our king?”

“He’s dead!”

These words came from Alfrid, the townmaster’s deputy.

The man was openly disliked amongst the common townsfolk and looked down on by the upper classes of Esgaroth due to his low birth. He lived in a state of perpetual frustration at not being taken seriously by anyone in town, which in turn made him unpleasant to deal with. Whenever Alfrid Lickspittle could belittle, harm or cheat someone, he did it with unfailing consistency.

“You dim-witted bunch of idiots. He’s dead,” Alfrid repeated, spraying spittle as he spoke. “Bard is dead, he fell with the dragon, and burned with the city!”

“I’m here,” a deep voice said.

Brea gasped and looked together with the crowd as Bard emerged from the lake, dragging Bain along. Both were covered in soot and soaked through, but Bain was beaming with pride.

“Da!” Sigrid and Tilda pushed past her, racing into their father’s embrace. Within seconds the cheering townsfolk had surrounded the family, offering blankets to dry themselves off and thanking Bard for their lives. 

Brea stayed away. From her spot on the shore, she saw the people assemble around the former bargeman and look up to him for guidance. They obeyed when he ordered Alfrid to be released, just when the crowd was about to tear him apart in the townmaster’s stead. Brea felt revulsion and contempt every time she looked at the man. She thought it noble, if dangerous, of Bard to let him live. She wrapped her arms around her body, raising her hand to her mouth almost without thinking. The pent-up tension of the evening needed a release.

The splash of footsteps in the water made her turn around. Further down the waterline, the dwarves were commandeering Bard’s skiff and preparing to depart. A wise decision, all things considered. Deprived of the possibility to take revenge on Alfrid, who knew whom the people would turn to next ? The dwarves’ arrival to Esgaroth had coincided with Smaug’s attack, that enough was cause enough for blame. All the best then if they weren’t around when the townsfolk looked for someone new to accuse.

Brea surveyed the shore: it seemed that only she had noticed their intentions. Her aunt was absorbed in a discussion with Alva, and both girls were clinging to their father and brother. No-one paid any attention to the small group fussing with a boat. She contemplated pretending she didn’t see anything, then told herself that it’d be kinder to see the dwarves off, if only to thank them for their help. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Mildred had been right after all. They wouldn’t have made it out of Laketown without their help.

She slowly made her way towards the group. Fíli looked up when he heard her footsteps.

“Leaving already?”

He nodded, glancing towards the group gathered around Bard and his children. “Aye. It is time we joined the rest of the company. We’ve tarried too long as it is, and if it hadn’t been for that arrow…” 

She understood. “Your place is with your brother. But is he strong enough yet for such a journey?”

Fíli’s face grew serious. “He must be. This quest is everything we’ve been raised to accomplish. It’d kill him if he couldn’t be a part of it.”

Brea wondered about the life they’d led before, and the upbringing that had lain such a burden on their shoulders. She hoped that the quest alone wouldn’t be the end of Kíli, but feared her warning would be in vain. She suspected that foolhardiness was a common dwarfish trait.

“You take good care of him then,” she acquiesced. “And of yourself. Oh, and Fíli… Thank you. For everything.”

His beaded mustache bobbed when he bowed, a movement she had trouble keeping her eyes off of. She realized she was staring and blushed.

“You saved us, we helped you. We are even.” He smiled, and the soot that covered his face drew small crinkles in the corners of his eyes. His eyes were blue – she hadn’t noticed that earlier. Not that it mattered.

“I still have your cloak,” she remembered, moving to unwrap it from her shoulders, but he stopped her. 

“Keep it… You’ll need it. Would that I had more to give to you. To these people.” His face grew thoughtful. “I will find out what happened. I promise.”

With those words Fíli bowed again, a hand on his heart. Brea noted with embarrassment that his fingers were still marred with her blood, proof of her uncomely habit. He had surprised her twice that day with his gentleness, a virtue she’d seldom found in men.

The dwarves jumped into the skiff and pushed away from the shore. They rowed for the northern shore and the Mountain. Within minutes darkness had swallowed them entirely. Brea found herself waving goodbye long after she couldn’t make out the boat anymore. Fíli’s cloak was keeping her warm even though her feet were freezing, and it came to her that she had never told him her name.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_“My barn having burned down, I can now see the moon.”_

_Mizuta Masahide_

oOoOoOo

_October 5_ _ th _ _, T.A. 2941_

They’d been walking since sunrise. Bard led the way, his son Bain in tow. Men followed, grim-faced and determined. Like the new king had said, winter was coming. They needed to find shelter and food, but there was little of both on the cold shores of the Long Lake.

The procession of refugees stretched out for over a mile. Women and children, the wounded and the elderly walked in the middle, and more able-bodied men closed the march. Brea walked with Alva and her aunt, her thoughts straying to the past and the future in no particular order. 

Sometimes, when they were following the higher cliffs that bordered the lake, she could see the volutes of smoke still rising from the remains of Esgaroth, far to the west. Sometimes the lake shimmered in the pale autumn sunlight in hues of silver and blue. It was the first time Brea had left Laketown. It was unsettling that she’d never have the chance to go back. According to the popular saying, she knew what she was leaving behind but not what lay ahead, except a name: Dale.

They’d been headed north for almost three days when the scouts Bard had sent out returned: the abandoned city was near. By then Brea was sick of walking and sleeping on the ground, sick of never knowing where they’d stop and when they’d be going again. She hoped that once they’d established themselves in the ruins of the old town, she would have a little place to call her own again. She never thought she’d miss Laketown and its streets that reeked of fish and liquor.

The only thing that truly belonged to her now was the cloak that Fíli had given her. It should’ve been too short for a human, but Brea was of small stature and thus the cloak reached down to her knees. She’d had plenty of time to examine it during their journey. It was soft blue wool lined with fur, and possessed a golden clasp with a sigil engraved on its surface. The clasp was now hidden inside Brea’s pocket: gold or no, she meant to save the token for herself, at least until the time when she couldn’t keep it anymore.

Truth was, the cloak and the sigil reminded her of Fíli in a way she didn’t dislike. She could still recall the feeling of her hand in his when he’d comforted her, that night on the lake. His hand was calloused and warm, his fingers barely longer than her own but thick and powerful. His eyes had crinkled in a smile when they’d parted. He had been nothing but kind, and it had been long since a man had showed her such consideration. She meant to keep the memory of that gentleness to herself.

The Lonely Mountain loomed in the distance, ever present and still so far away. Brea caught herself thinking of the dwarves again. Did they reach their destination unharmed ? Did they find their friends alive? Was Kíli’s wound healing, or did they need help?

The townsfolk’s grumbling about the dwarves and their fault in the destruction of Esgaroth had escalated since the attack. Many had wished them to be the first of Smaug’s victims, yet Bard did not encourage such talk. Brea could only admire him for that, especially since she’d learned his side of the story. She hadn’t known that he’d been imprisoned before Smaug descended on the city, or that he had smuggled the dwarves into Laketown in the first place. It seemed to her that Bard owed them a lot of trouble, yet he didn’t call for their blood.

Of him Brea had seen little, and only from afar, save for one occasion. He’d found her on the first day of their journey, as she struggled to help a pregnant woman onto a makeshift cart that she and Mildred would be riding. Indeed, the former townmaster’s wife had somehow made it to safety, and was expecting a child. The pregnancy was difficult, Brea had learned from the young woman, discouraging long walks or any exhausting exercise.

She’d been sweaty and drained by the time she was done, her damp and dirty dress clinging to her body. Brea knew she reeked, but there was no helping it yet. She’d just wiped her forehead with her hand when she noticed Bard watching her from a distance. With no other choice but to finish her gesture, she’d wiped her hand on her skirts and fell in with the cart, resigning herself to a long day.

He’d had no trouble catching up with her, his long legs much more efficient than her own. “I am glad you made it, Brea,” he started. His voice was low and husky, one more thing Brea liked about him. That and the way her name sounded in his mouth. “I wanted to thank you for helping my children.”

Brea had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “I thought we had a deal? Your boat seemed a fair payment for our lives.” She smirked. “Oh, and killing the dragon helped too.”

“Aye. Though I had help.”

“About that…” Brea felt the itch to bite her nails again. “Just so you know, we did try to stop Bain from running away.”

He burst out laughing. “I should’ve known it,” Bard chuckled. “Bain takes after me and my pigheadedness. Or so I’m told. You did what you could, Brea, I don’t doubt that.”

They walked in companionable silence. “So… A king.” She was teasing him, yearning to see him grin again, but his face darkened instead. 

“It won’t last,” he sighed. “Bargeman I was, bargeman I remain, Brea. The people need someone to make decisions, and if they listen to me long enough to shelter my children from winter that’s fine by me.”

“My pardons, Bard, but I think that’s bullshit.” Her neck was aching from looking up so long, but what she had to say had to be spoken to his face. “None of them noble masters made a move to protect us when Smaug came, did they? And none of them are speaking up now. You make a fine king, Bard. Go ahead and prove them all wrong.”

If he’d been surprised by her outburst, Bard showed none of it. He looked her in the eye one last time: “I never told you, Brea… I am sorry for your husband.”

“Good day, Bard.”

The skin of her thumb had been salty in her mouth, barely healed.

oOoOoOo

They stopped at midday, lighting fires and cooking whatever food had been caught during the morning. Most people seemed to have found a new purpose within the group. Those who could hunt or fish had been busy feeding the townsfolk, those who could help otherwise had also found their place in the new order of things. People adapted, willingly or no, and Brea had to do the same.

She had learned three days prior that Laketown’s chief healer had perished in the attack. Their house, located in the northernmost part of Esgaroth, had sunk with the whole family still inside. Since that day Brea had stretched her responsibilities by caring for the wounded and sick. Fortunately she knew how to dress a wound, how to stitch it up and how to detect infection. Her notions in herb lore were pitiful, but some of the townswomen had proven a valuable source of knowledge. Mildred herself boasted a vast experience in midwifery, which could be needed soon if Brea’s calculations were correct.

Brea had started out by examining Pieter’s wound, that first night on the shore by the Long Lake, following Alva’s voiced concerns about her husband’s state. She’d unwrapped the bandages with care, soaking them up with boiled and cooled water to avoid tearing at the scabs. Pieter’s forearm had sustained a heavy burn and the pain was unrelenting. He was a tough man, but Brea could hear him grind his teeth in torment when she tended to the injury.

Alva had plied him with cheap liquor before two other men could hold him down. He moaned while Brea removed the dead skin as delicately as she could, guided by Daria, one of the town elders who used to be a healer’s wife. Once she was sure that no part of the wound was likely to rot, she had dressed it with the cleanest cloth they had. Without honey, there was not much else she could do. Bread was scarce, but some had been put aside on Bard’s orders to develop mold and ward off infection.

Pieter was slumped in exhaustion by the time Brea had finished, and her hands ached from the tension she’d experienced. She had learned much and more that first night, as Daria had proved a willing and knowledgeable teacher. Word was out that someone could treat the injured, and Brea had been solicited several times more that evening. 

She soon understood that she wouldn’t manage by herself. There were too many people needing medical help, and not enough hands to help them. As she crumpled down beside the campfire that night, praying for an hour’s rest, she solicited Alva’s advice.

“I’ll get word out,” the older woman said. “There are many young’uns running around that could be of more use to you than to their parents.” She started by sending her own daughters of fourteen and twelve, Bodil and Gerda, to assist Brea in her work. Bodil was but a year younger than Brea when she’d started her apprenticeship with her aunt.

“I can teach her, if she’s willing to learn,” Mildred offered. “And you can show Gerda what you need doing.”

And so it came to be that Brea had gained an assistant overnight. Little Gerda ran her errands, collecting herbs and fetching supplies while her aunt trained Bodil in the knowledge of pregnancy and childbirth. The eldest of Alva’s daughters would lead Mildred by the arm to check on Agnessa, the townmaster’s widow, and examine her child through her belly. Her aunt’s skilled hands allowed her to know without seeing, and she taught Bodil how to feel the babe and its position inside the womb.

It was fortunate that Agnessa hadn’t been excessively grieved by her husband’s death as the pregnancy was already taxing for her health. A quiet and shy woman of almost forty, she seemed relieved that people had forgotten who she used to be.

oOoOoOo

A sharp whistle pulled Brea from her thoughts. She’d been musing on how best to combine the effects of grease and mold to both prevent and heal blisters, when the column of refugees came to a halt in the middle of a narrow path that climbed towards a stony ridge ahead. 

“What is it?” her aunt inquired from the cart. 

Agnessa leaned forward, a hand on her belly. “Is something wrong?”

All around them, people’s spirits seemed raised by the whistle. Some of them pointed ahead, others talked, nodding with enthusiasm. The cart lurched forward again, and Brea lay a hand on Mildred’s arm. “I think it’s good news, Ma,” she said. “We have arrived.”

The Mountain stood before them, lonely and looming. Long had they travelled to reach it and now it lay ahead, its peak crowned with the first winter snow. Between its arms, down in the valley, the river Running flowed deep and vigorous. The lively waters looped around the vale, embracing the hill where stood the ruins of the ancient city of Dale before joining the Long Lake in the south. The town used to be merry and prosperous, but the coming of Smaug and the destruction of Erebor had forced its folk to flee. Delicate arches and vaults overgrown with greenery glimmered in the setting sun, and the winding streets. Even from a distance Brea could see how lovely the city had been.

It took them most of the evening to descend into the valley, and only at nightfall did they reach the city. The wrought golden gates were slouching sideways, half-melted by dragonfire. The empty town was quiet in the setting gloom, cowing the people who entered it into silence. Brea’s eyes soon got used to the dimness and she started to notice her surroundings more. They passed a baker’s shop, the abandoned oven visible from the storefront. There was a forge as well, and a toymaker’s workshop. In every street hung the signs representing the different trades that used to be Dale’s pride.

The abandoned houses stood, waiting for their new occupants, The streets were dark and quiet. If any ghosts dwelled within the walls of Dale, they harbored no resentment. Almost two hundred years after its destruction, the city had been avenged.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_“If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.”  
Kristin Hannah_

oOoOoOo

_October 10 th, T.A. 2941_

The sudden sound woke Brea with a start. She sat up straight on her mattress, heart pounding. It took her a moment to remember where she was. “What again?” she groaned, resenting being pulled from her slumber at such an early hour.

The scarce light that filtered into the room revealed that dawn was barely upon them. In the small bed next to her, her aunt was also wide awake. The second blast of the warhorn pulled them from their beds.

“In a second,” Brea breathed out, pulling on her dress with clumsy fingers. “In a second, Ma. I’m coming to help you.”

They’d been staying in a small house at the foot of the hill with Alva and her family. The dwelling had a spare room that Alva had suggested they use, so that Mildred could have company and help should Brea be away for work.

The stones were cold under her bare feet when she hurried across the room. The night before she’d lain out her aunt’s garb in orderly piles in front of the door, where Mildred could find them easily and dress with no assistance. Before she could reach it, the door flew open and Alva appeared, hair tousled, wearing nothing but a nightshift. 

“Get up!” she hissed, “Get up quick!”

“What’s going on?” Brea asked, bending to retrieve Mildred’s clothing that Alva’s entrance had strewn across the room.

“No idea, but that can’t be good.” Alva scratched her arm, shivering in the morning chill. “Get dressed, I’ll send Pieter to find out what this is about.”

Mildred was shaking, whether from cold or fear Brea couldn’t tell. She helped her aunt into her dress as gently as she could, smoothing the greying hair out of her face. “I’m here, Ma,” she whispered, cupping her cheek. “I’m not leaving you.”

Alva was pacing nervously in the kitchen by the time they were done. “I don’t like it,” she grumbled. “I don’t like it one bit. First dwarves, then the dragon, now them damned elves at our doorstep.”

“Bard said the elves are not our enemy,” Brea pointed out.

She’d seen him the day before, when he’d come to inform the townsfolk of the ongoing dissent between dwarves and elves. The new king of Dale had looked exhausted and exasperated. The people of Laketown were caught in the conflict, needing part of the treasure that lay in the Lonely Mountain to rebuild homes and buy provisions before winter came. The way Bard had voiced it, the dwarves within the Mountain had refused to uphold their part of the bargain.

Brea had been disappointed to hear it. She found it hard to believe that Fíli would let the people who had helped him and his brother escape die of hunger. He’d said he wanted to do more if he could, and she refused to think that he’d lied to her face.

“Yes, well. I don’t trust them pointy ears.”

“Even though we’ve been doing business with them for years?”

“Business is business, an army at our doorstep is war.” Alva jabbed a finger at her. “Mind you, those dwarves started it. I hope they rot inside that mountain.”

Before Brea could reply, Gerda came crashing through the door, breathless and weeping.

“Mama!” she gasped, “Papa’s been summoned. He sent me to tell you…” She doubled over, panting. “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” Alva frowned, her hands on her hips. “What’s this business now, what’s with the summoning? Come girl, breathe!”

Gerda shook her head, more tears streaming down her face. “The orcs… The orcs are coming.”

The horn blared once more. This time, it sounded closer than before, echoing in the narrow streets of the city. Trumpets answered in the distance, warning the inhabitants of Dale. War was upon them.

oOoOo

Mildred cried out as she slipped on the rubble that covered the ground, pulling Brea down with her. She grunted and hauled her aunt up again. “Quickly!” she implored, “Come on!”

“My ankle…” Mildred’s face twisted in pain. “I’m sorry darling… I can’t.” She tried to push Brea away. “You go! You save yourself.”

Brea could see that she was ready to sacrifice herself so that one of them may live. Her face was determined, her lips quivering in anguish. Brea huffed in outrage. 

“So you’re giving up like that? You’ve taught me better.” She ducked under Mildred’s arm, hoisting it over her shoulder. Her legs protested as she supported their joint weight. “Now come on!” She grit her teeth with the effort.

“You shouldn’t…” Mildred was crying as she hobbled along. That was enough for Brea, at least they were moving again.

“Bullshit. You’re coming with me.”

Behind them, the grunting of the orcs and the clamor of battle were getting closer. The gates had been taken, she’d heard, though it didn’t take much of an army to overcome the pitiful protection it offered. The orcs had been stopped briefly in the lower part of Dale, but the resistance grew weaker and the enemy numbers seemed endless. The townsfolk ran before the assailants, abandoning the city street after street.

“Women and children! To the hall!” Bard’s captains yelled out as they fought, “Run! Take shelter!” And so Brea, Alva and their families had proceeded in haste towards the upper city. 

The climb was strenuous, especially for Mildred, who could not see the rubble that covered the streets and the fallen slabs of stone that blocked the way. Ahead of them raced Alva, hauling bother her daughters by the hand. Other women hurried past them, babes and children held tightly in their arms. Sullen youngsters led their siblings, who gawked, oblivious of the danger they were in.

Brea’s legs and lungs were burning by the time they reached the old hall of Dale. The massive stone building overlooked the city, its domed vault tiled in hues of red and gold. The large wooden doors, reinforced with bars of iron, had been thrown wide open to let the flow of people in.

“I can’t… No more…”

“We’re almost there, Ma!” Brea wheezed. “I can see the entrance!”

She stubbed her toe on the stony threshold and cursed. Spotting Alva and her daughters in a corner, she directed her aunt towards the family. Her legs wobbled with every step, and her foot throbbed.

“We made it! Thank the Gods,” Alva moaned, but Brea could see the longing look she cast towards the lower districts, where her husband was fighting alongside the other men.

The room was wide and cold. The vast fireplace that used to hold bonfires for city gatherings had not served for nearly two centuries, and the spare wood that was stored within the hall had long since rotted. Brea helped her aunt to the ground, and removed Fíli’s cloak to drape it around Mildred’s shoulders.

A commotion by the doors drew her attention. Whispers said the entrance would be closed as soon as the last refugees had reached the hall. Less and less people trickled in and thus the moment grew near. 

Alva was quarreling with her eldest. “What do you mean, she’s not here?”

“I don’t know!” Bodil was on the verge of tears. “I can’t see her, I don’t know where she is!” She pouted. “It’s not my fault she didn’t come!”

“Who’s not here?” Brea inquired. The hall was packed full of townsfolk female, old and small, making it near impossible to find someone in such a crowd. 

“Agnessa.” Alva sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Bodil says she’s not seen her here or on the way.”

“Oh no.” Brea craned her neck to spot the townmaster’s wife’s copper hair. Her small size rendered the task even more difficult.

“I can’t see her either,” Alva confessed anxiously. “I mean… She was wife to that fat scrooge, but that’s not the lass’s fault…”

“But what if no-one warned her?” Brea whispered. “What if she’s still out there?” 

“What do you think they’ll do to her if…?” Alva blanched. “And the babe…?” They shared a look of horror.

Brea knew what she had to do, even though her whole body protested against it. “You take care of Ma,” she commanded. “You promise that whatever happens, you’ll take care of her.”

She imagined Agnessa’s body slumped in a dark passage, her blood seeping between the paving stones. She’d been so grateful every time they had spoken, so fondly in awe of the child she was carrying. 

No-one deserved to die because people had hated their husband.

“I’m going to find her.”

oOoOo

She’d wanted this, Brea reminded herself as she ran. Worse, she’d chosen this. However foolish, her current situation was her own doing. She came to a halt and leaned against the closest wall. Her panting breath became a coughing fit, signaling her presence to whoever lurked nearby. 

The house before her was small and shabby, its façade overgrown with vine. Brea shook the door handle and pushed, but the door was shut. That, or Agnessa’d had the sense to bar it from inside.

Brea hammered against the wood. “Agnessa!” she called out. “Agnessa, are you there?” A muffled voice reached her ears. “Open up! It’s Brea.”

The scrape of wood on stone indicated that the young woman was attempting to remove the obstacle. The roar of the battle rolled up the street, growing closer.

“Hurry, damn you!” She pushed against the door until it opened and Agnessa’s pale face appeared, preceded by her belly. “Come with me!” She grabbed the other woman’s hand and pulled her out into the alley.

“Kill them all!” growled a guttural voice behind them.

Brea spun around to see that the fight had reached their position. A man gurgled as he fell, blood flowing from his mouth. The orc stood above him and twisted the spear embedded in his throat. His eyes focused on the two women. 

“This way!” Brea tugged at Agnessa’s arm, taking off into the nearest passage. The way was almost blocked by brambles that grew out of a demolished building and she tore at them with her bare hands. The thorns shredded her skin, their sting a reminder of what would happen if she stopped. Beyond the shrubbery the passage continued, the promise of a way out.

“I can’t run!” Agnessa protested, doubling over to protect her belly.

“You can, and you must!” Brea cursed as the brambles caught her skirts. “Come on!”

“I can’t… I…” Agnessa moaned. Her face shone with sweat. “The baby…” she panted, “The baby is coming.”

A shadow blocked the light coming from the alley. The orc’s lips peeled back, revealing sharp yellow fangs. He sniffed the air and snarled. “Juicy,” he purred. “Tender.” His armor scraped against the narrow walls of the passage as he advanced. “It’s been long since I last gorged myself on child-flesh.”


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”  
G.K. Chesterton_

oOoOoOo

Agnessa sagged against the wall. Her breath came in short pants as she struggled to remain silent. Brea edged backwards. Her foot butted against a large rock and she bent to pick it up.

The orc laughed, spraying saliva onto his breastplate. “Feisty,” he chortled. “I’ll devour your entrails, woman.”

Brea’s stomach churned, her blood pounded in her ears. She only had one chance to knock him out, and then perhaps she’d be able to grasp his weapon. Her arm was trembling with exhaustion. One chance.

Agnessa moaned again, biting her lips to contain herself.

“I can already taste it,” the orc taunted. “Like a little bloody sausage.” He bared his fangs and lunged forward.

Brea drew her arm back for the throw. She heard a wet sound and the whisper of steel, and tasted warm blood on her lips. The orc’s body arched and shuddered as a blade emerged from his leather gorget.

“Bard!” Brea sobbed, dropping the stone.

“Brea! What are you doing here? Are you unhurt?” His eyes took in the scene. “Is she…?”

“Yes.”

“Gods.” He glanced towards the alley. “You must get her to the hall.”

“She won’t make it that far!” Brea went to kneel beside Agnessa. “Bard, the child is coming, she can’t walk.” He looked aghast. “Unless you have men to spare to carry her up the hill, she’ll be giving birth in one of these houses.”

oOoOoOo

Brea wiped the sweat from Agnessa’s brow with a piece from her own shift. She’d stripped the woman of her dress so that she could be at least somewhat comfortable, and lay her down on a dusty mattress.

The room they’d found refuge in was small and dark, but it had a fireplace that could be used. Brea had struggled to build a fire, thankful to the previous occupants of the house for the firewood that lay by the hearth. She’d also found a bucket of acceptably clean water that could serve when the child came, but the linens smelled of dust and mold. She’d used them as kindling.

The hours trickled by, monotonous yet nerve-wracking. Outside, the battle for Dale still raged. From time to time, a sword would scrape the wall, driving a squeak of fear from both of them. Screams and grunts drowned out Agnessa’s groans of pain.

The contractions came in strong, short bursts now, and the birth canal had widened to almost four inches. Whenever the need came, Brea helped Agnessa up and they circled the room in small, pained steps. If the spasms caught them standing, Brea would support the woman and endure her nails digging into her arm.

“It’s coming,” Agnessa panted as Brea helped her lay down again. “I need to push…”

“Don’t.” She pulled the sweat-soaked strands of hair from Agnessa’s face. “Not yet. Not until you can’t help it.”

Any strength they still had left should be saved for the final moments of labor, when the baby was ready to come out. Pushing too soon could lead to exhaustion and worse, to swelling that could prevent a natural birth. Save for a dagger borrowed from Bard, there was nothing in the house Brea would be able to use to save mother and child, not to mention that she’d never had to practice such an intervention before. She prayed she wouldn’t have to learn today.

A bang on the door made her jump. “Oh Gods, they’re coming!” wailed Agnessa. She clawed at her swollen belly. “Please… Don’t let them take my son! Take him… Save him, please!” Her eyes were on the dagger.

Brea clutched the hilt against her chest and held her breath. Absurd as it may seem, she hoped that the sound had only been another fighter that chanced to die at their doorstep. The thumping resumed. Agnessa whimpered.

“Brea? It’s Bard.”

She cracked the door open to see him standing there, weary and covered in blood. His long dark hair was moist with sweat. “I came to tell you it’s over. Dale is ours again.” He peeked over her head. “How is she?”

“Still fighting. It won’t be long now... She’s very brave.” 

He hesitated. “And how are you faring?” 

“I’ve been worse.” She leaned against the doorframe. Her eyes were itchy and raw. “Once this little one joins us, I’ll sleep for a week.”

He grinned. “You look like you’re the one in need of assistance.”

“Are you volunteering?” She smiled tiredly. “’I just might have a use for your skill with a blade.”

oOoOoOo

“Now push!”

Brea ground her teeth as Agnessa’s grip crushed her fingers. Disentangling herself from the grasp, she looked over to where Bard was shredding Agnessa’s dress into towel-sized pieces. He was sitting with his back towards the women to allow them a semblance of privacy. 

“Bard, I’ll need you over here.” She motioned for him to take over her place by Agnessa’s side. “Hold her hand, she’ll need someone to support her.”

She pulled Agnessa’s shift up the woman’s thighs. Bard averted his eyes, focusing on Agnessa’s hand in his. Brea noted fondly that he was blushing.

“Push! Now!”

Agnessa’s face contorted in effort. Her red hair was soaked with sweat, almost brown in the dimly-lit room. Her shift was drenched as well, sticking to her pale skin. She turned her face away from Bard, shut her eyes and obeyed.

“Again!”

Brea could see the child’s head between her thighs, slipping out slowly with each push. The chord was would around the tiny neck so she hooked a finger under it, loosening it just enough to ease it over his head. 

“Again, Agnessa! It’s almost over, now.”

Agnessa moaned. She grasped the mattress with her free hand, her whole body taut with effort. Brea guided the baby’s head downward as the shoulders followed. The newborn’s skin was wrinkled and warm, sticky with his mother’s waters. Soon the whole child was in her arms and she lifted it gently, cautious not to tear at the chord that still tied him to his mother.

“You have a son,” she whispered, drying him off with the towels Bard had provided. With the gentlest of movements she wiped the baby’s mouth and nose. Then she proceeded to rub the newborn’s sides until he opened his little mouth and squealed. “A healthy boy.”

She lay him against his mother’s breast and covered him with one of the remaining towels.

Agnessa wrapped her arms around her child and wept in silence, be it from exhaustion or joy. Or perhaps she grieved for her son’s father and the life they’d lost in Esgaroth… Brea suddenly felt like an intruder. As a father, even Bard was less out of place, having once felt what Agnessa was feeling at that very moment. Brea herself would never know.

“Congratulations, Agnessa.” Bard’s low voice was thick with emotion. “This little one’s going to need a name fitting of your courage.” He looked as tired as the new mother.

“His name is Maethor,” Agnessa murmured into her son’s wispy hair. “For he was born in battle.”

oOoOoOo

Brea made her way home through the ravaged streets of Dale, dragging her feet and yawning. Her stomach rumbled loudly, complaining of prolonged lack of food. Her hands burned, the scratches still fresh and bleeding. It seemed like she’d only woken a minute ago, roused by the sound of the horn that signaled the attack. The day had gone in a blink of an eye, yet so much had changed.

The town was grieving, the streets encumbered with bodies of goblin and man alike. Brea passed the giant corpse of a troll, like a grey hillock collecting flies. Glassy eyes gazed at the sky; blue, brown, yellow and black. They lay side by side, united in death despite the hatred that had opposed them in life. The cleaning of the streets would take time, to separate friend from foe and bury the ones while burning the others.

Crows circled the skies above the city, flying above the plain up to the ancient kingdom of Erebor. Brea’d heard talk of a battle greater than Dale, confronting five armies of different races at the foot of the mountain. Again her thoughts strayed towards the dwarves. She fingered Fíli’s clasp inside her pocket, wondering how he had chosen to meet his end. At his brother’s side most likely, with some dwarvish battle cry on his lips.

Hoping he’d survived went against reason, so she hoped he hadn’t suffered as others would.

For the battle had also yielded its share of injuries that would need tending to. Brea expected the amount of work to be colossal, but this time it would take more than bandages and casts to repair the damage. Cleavers and mauls, hammers and spears… She would have to face the destruction such tools could wreak upon a body when moved by malice and hatred. Many more would die that day and the next of bloodloss or infection. The war collected its toll in a creeping and inexorable manner.

“Brea! You’re safe, thank the Gods!” Alva cried out when she stepped into the kitchen.

“My darling!!”

She fell into her aunt’s arms and let herself be cajoled and kissed, Mildred’s tears dampening her face.

“Oh my dear child!” The older woman shook with relief, clutching her tightly against her chest. “Where on earth have you been?”

“Too long a story,” She swayed on her feet, eyes closing already against her will. “Let’s not have another day like this again.”


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.”  
Isaac Asimov_

oOoOoOo

_October 11 th, T.A. _ _2941_

Daria sniffed the oozing wound with distaste. “It’s festering,” she declared. “We should remove the foot before the sickness spreads.”

The young man whimpered, shaking with fever and fear. “Not my foot, please!” he begged. “What’ll I do without a foot? How’ll I feed my children?” Tears drew rivulets on his blood-smeared face. “I’m a carpenter…” he pleaded. “It’s all I know, please! There must be another way!”

Daria clicked her tongue. “I’m sorry boy. I wish there was.” She rested a gnarled hand on his arm. “It’s up to you, of course. But if we don’t take it you’ll sicken and die. There’s too many orphans in the city as it is.”

He rolled onto his side, sobbing quietly. A goblin’s mace had crushed his left foot during the battle, mangling it beyond recognition. It was past saving even without the infection that had set in. Brea had attempted to remove the splinters of bone that leaked marrow into his blood, but Daria had discouraged it.

“There are others that you can save,” she’d said. “It’s not an easy choice, but it’s one you must make.”

They’d been working side by side for hours, ever since Brea had reported for duty after a night’s sleep. She’d woken from a dreamless slumber rested if not appeased, thankful for the exhaustion that had deprived her of the nightmares she could’ve had.

The city hall and the old palace that stood beside it had been requisitioned on the king’s orders to serve as healing rooms until a better place could be found. Brea’d had a hand in organizing the hall with what supplies and items they possessed, counselled by Daria and her experience. There were no beds enough to accommodate everyone who’d need them, and many of the wounded were installed on the ground. Lines of mattresses and linens filled up the place, leaving space in the center for a circle of tables set as close as possible to the fire pit. The fire provided light and warmth and could be used to cleanse any utensils required during the procedures.

The wounded started arriving by mid-morning. Some came in by foot, alone or supported. Others were carried up to the hall where they were either taken care of or sent to the palace, if their lesions were less severe. Alva, Bodil, and the other women who didn’t have children to mind had been assigned roles according to their experience. Those who knew how to prepare salves and potions had been sent to the palace kitchens, others cleaned and dressed the wounds or sewed them shut if they had the skill for it.

Those who couldn’t do either were tasked with the hardest of all duties. Thus Mildred and other elderly townsfolk had witnessed the last moments of many a man that day, listening to their last words and bringing what comfort they could until they passed. Many of those men didn’t have a family to hold their hand during their agony. Some of them were disfigured beyond identification, and family found them too late. Bard had appealed that none who’d fought for the freedom of the Northern lands should die alone.

Brea watched the former carpenter’s shoulders shake as he processed Daria’s words. Noon had not yet rolled in but she felt exhausted again, her hair and clothes stiff with drying blood. Even her face felt sticky. The idea of having to detach a part of someone’s body once again repulsed her. So far it had been one foot and one full leg, and three arms above or below the elbow. She’d lost count of the fingers hanging by a thread of muscle that she’d had to sever. She suspected they’d be haunting her dreams for the nights to come.

“Take him inside!” a woman’s voice instructed by the entrance. Brea went to wash her hands in a bucket that children like Gerda were tasked with refilling. She wiped her hands on the cleanest part of her skirts and headed to the empty table nearby.

At first glance she thought him to be a child, so small he looked beside the men who carried him. Only the armor he wore belied that evaluation, and the beard that framed his bruised face. His eyes were closed, his long black hair cascading from the stretcher in dirty waves. Brea knew his face from days ago.

“His name is Thorin Oakenshield.”

A quick examination of his body showed several gashes and a deep penetrating wound in his chest. The armor had been bent inwards by the impact with the blade, preventing the wound from closing. She pressed her fingers to his throat, felt for a pulse. His skin was long cold.

“He’s dead,” she muttered. They needed to clear the table for someone else, yet she couldn’t bring herself to give the order. He looked peaceful in death, unlike the last memory she had of him, beseeching the townsfolk of Esgaroth for their help. The King under the Mountain had returned only to die before its doors.

“Was he alone?” she asked the men, “Was there anyone else with him?” Her eyes searched the hall for another dwarven body.

“He’s been brought down from Ravenhill,” they told her. “There’s orc corpses up there too but master Bard instructed to burn them.”

“No other dwarves? Are you sure?” she insisted. “There must be wounded amongst their kind too! What of them?”

“What of them?” one of the men mimicked her. “Who cares! The little buggers started this war anyway, waking Smaug and whatnot.” He spat on the ground before the table where Thorin lay. “Looks like the King under the Mountain is dead. Long live the King of Dale!”

oOoOoOo

“Is it true?”

Hands on her hips, Brea stared Bard down. It wasn’t easy given her small size. She had to crane her neck to stare angrily into his face.

“Is it true that dwarves are not welcome into the city? Even those wounded?”

He sat down, mindful of her comfort, and drummed his fingers on the table. “Brea, it’s not that simple.”

“Seems quite simple to me. Yes or no?”

He sighed. “The people are angry, Brea. They are looking for a scapegoat. For Laketown, for what happened here. Now is not the time to give them any reason for murder.”

“But murder is what we’re doing!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me there are no injured in their ranks. Or the elves’.” She jabbed an accusatory finger in the general direction of the Mountain. “But they are allowed to enter?”

“There are injured aplenty amongst the goblins as well,” Bard snapped. “Would you have me bring them in?”

She opened her mouth. “That’s not…”

“Besides,” he continued, “Elves have their own healers. As do the dwarves, I’m sure.”

“Then why have they been bringing them in dead since the morn?” Brea threw her hands up in frustration. “They need help, Bard, you know it. Elves won’t help them, only we can.”

“You know nothing of it!” He looked away, gazing absently out the window. “You weren’t there, Brea. You didn’t see what I did. Such arrogance…” He shook his head. “I’m not even sure they’d accept our help should we offer it.”

“We could try!” She tried another approach. “Bard, they saved your children! Have you forgotten?” She knew at once she’d gone too far.

“I have not.” His eyes were blazing. “What I’ve not forgotten is how I’d warned them not to go near that mountain. What happened after is on their conscience.”

“So you blame them too.” She retreated in disbelief. “Like the others.”

“Brea. Enough.” He stood, his face drawn. “I understand, I do. But I won’t risk a riot when we’ve suffered so much already.”

She’d wanted to say that the dwarves too had known their share of hardship, but didn’t. “I’m disappointed, Bard. I won’t say otherwise.” She headed towards the door, but spared one last look into his eyes. “I hope your own conscience is clear, and that your crown is worth the price you’re paying.”

oOoOoOo

When she came home that night, dinner had already been made and eaten. Brea tiptoed past Alva’s sleeping children, who were sprawled out before the hearth, and into the room where her aunt would be waiting for her. Mildred looked up as the door creaked, announcing her niece’s return. She sat at a small table by the window, untroubled by the absence of light in the room.

“Is it you, darling?” she murmured. Her breath clouded as she spoke.

“It’s me, Ma.” Brea embraced her tightly, reveling in her familiar, reassuring smell. She kissed her cheek. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Have you eaten?” she worried, “Aren’t you cold?” She went to retrieve a blanket and draped it around her aunt’s shoulders. “You should’ve gone to sleep.”

“I wanted to spend some time with you,” Mildred said calmly, dismissing Brea’s fussing. Yet she pulled the blanket closer to her body. “Sit” she said, patting the second chair by the table, “And eat.” She pushed a plate-covered bowl towards the empty seat.

“That’s not your portion, is it?” Brea narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be asking Alva in the morning, you know. She’ll be telling on you if you’re undereating.”

“She’ll be telling you nothing,” Mildred rolled her eyes. “Now quit your fretting and have some food. I’d wager you haven’t eaten since morning.”

Brea shoveled a spoonful of stew into her mouth, preferring not to answer. Her aunt was right, as often. The food was barely warm but it tasted wonderful to one so hungry. She chewed on bits of unidentified meat, mopping up the juices with a bit of bread.

“You must be exhausted, darling.” Mildred reached out a hesitant hand to pat her on the arm. “I heard there are wounded by the hundreds… What an awful time we’re living in. Still, your help is much appreciated, I am sure.” She smiled knowingly. “I believe Bard will be most grateful for your assistance.”

“No, he won’t.” Brea finished chewing and swallowed. Bits of meat had remained stuck between her teeth and she tried to dislodge them with her tongue. “After our talk today, he’s not likely to thank me anytime soon.”

“Oh, so you’ve seen him?” Mildred’s face lit up. “How is he?”

“Regal,” Brea supplied. “Busy. Conceited.”

“Now, that doesn’t sound like the man I know,” her aunt crossed her arms. “Are you sure we are speaking of Bard?”

“Tall, long-haired, ruggedly handsome.” Brea sighed. “Maybe you don’t know him all that well, Ma.”

“Now listen to me, young lady.” Her aunt waggled a stern finger in Brea’s direction. “I’ve brought all three of his bairns into this world. I know the man, and I know his family. There’s no-one less proud and more compassionate than Bard, no matter what anyone says. I’ve seen him grieve for his wife and still help others in need less dire than his own.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now you tell me what happened, tell me all, so I can advise.”

Shamed into obedience, Brea relented. She recounted her discussion with Bard, earlier that day. The nagging feeling of remorse that’d followed her throughout the evening soon had her nibbling at her nails again. Mildred clicked her tongue.

“Now that was unkind, darling, and unjust too.” She shuffled her hand along the surface of the table, searching for Brea’s own. “You have a gentle heart, but it should not speak louder than your sense. You’ve lost nothing in this fight, nor back in Laketown.” Brea made it to protest but Mildred squeezed her fingers. “You’ve lost nothing,” she insisted. “A house is nothing, possessions are nothing compared to a loved one. You’ve got no-one to grieve, honey. And that makes you deaf to those who do.”

oOoOoOo

Brea woke with a start again, but this time it hadn’t been a nightmare. She listed raptly, her whole body tense under the covers. The room was quiet, her aunt’s even breathing punctuated the silence. Then she heard it again. Something bounced off the shutters and onto the cobbles of the street, right beneath their window.

Her heartbeat quickened. Were they under yet another attack? Should she raise the alarm?

The sound repeated, a soft _plock_ on the wooden blinds. Not so menacing after all, she surmised, but very peculiar at this time of the night. She remembered that Bard had ordered for patrols throughout the streets from dusk till dawn. There were armed men in every district, and one shout for help would draw them all near. What harm was there to investigate?

Brea threw her covers aside and tiptoed to the window. The latch turned with a squeak and she winced, hoping that her aunt hadn’t heard it. The wooden panels swung outwards, letting in the cold night air. She drew back in shock as a face appeared in the casement. It wore a flappy hat.

“Bofur?” she hissed, “What are you doing here?”

He brought his finger to his lips and whispered: “Beg your pardons for waking you, miss. We couldn’t risk finding you in daylight.”

Another face appeared beside him.

“Kíli!” Even in the light of the moon she could see that the young dwarf was pale and sickly. “Is it your wound?”

He shook his head urgently. “It’s my brother. Please, we need your help.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_“Losing your life is not the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing is to lose your reason for living.”  
Jo Nesbo_

oOoOoOo

_October 12 th, T.A. _ _2941_

Kíli motioned for Brea to wait while Bofur hurried off beyond the corner before returning with another dwarf. This one was tall and bald, with a massive moustache that curved downward. They were carrying something. As they drew closer, Brea understood that it was in fact someone.

“Fíli…”

She was alarmed to see that he was unconscious. Blood had run from the corners of his mouth and his nose, caking his golden hair and beard. She searched for a pulse, remembering how she’d done the same with Thorin only hours ago. This time she felt a heartbeat. It was slow and erratic, but it was there.

“He’s not waking,” Kíli whispered urgently. “There’s nothing we can do. Please, you must help him!”

Her relief to see them both alive was tainted by Fíli’s dismaying state of health. His breathing was irregular and labored, his skin clammy with sweat. Brea understood that he was fighting for his life.

She glanced briefly back into her room. Her aunt was still sleeping, but there was no telling how long it’d take before the noise woke her. The situation required quick thinking, lest a patrol stumble upon the group of dwarves. All that she could come up with was Bard’s words from earlier that day. “A reason for murder,” he had said. Brea could not allow the dwarves to be discovered, and she’d not stand idly while Fíli was dying.

“Not here,” Brea mouthed. “I know a place.” She ducked back into the room and retrieved her boots as well as the cloak Fíli had given her. Wrapping it tightly around her body, she hurried back to the window. “Step aside.” The chair served as a ladder to climb onto the windowsill. Bofur and Kíli averted their eyes as her shift rode up her legs in the process. She pulled the shutters closed behind her. “Follow me!”

The room had been cold, but the street was colder. Brea shivered violently in a gust of icy wind, her skin covered in goosebumps. Torches flickered here and there along the building walls, and the distant sound of footsteps told her that a patrol was approaching. Her heart rate quickened and she ducked into a dark alley, the dwarves on her tail.

She knew the way by day, but at night Dale seemed a different town. The signs and chimneys cast crooked shadows that moved by torchlight. Guards’ voices echoed deceptively in the streets, making her jump for fear of being discovered. Twice she’d thought them lost before recognizing her surroundings. By the time they reached the house, she was tense and sweaty.

“Where is she taking us?” the bald dwarf grumbled to Kíli. “How do we know she won’t turn us in?”

Brea suddenly realized that her idea might have been unwise, but it was too late to turn around. She knocked on the door, praying for a quick reply. The door cracked open and Agnessa’s anxious face appeared, framed by her untied copper hair.

“Brea?” she whispered, “What is it?”

Brea breathed in relief. “Agnessa, you’ll have to forgive my late visit, but I really need your help…” The woman frowned. “And your discretion.”

oOoOoOo

Kíli hovered anxiously by the bed where his brother lay, while Dwalin paced behind him. “This is folly,” he growled. “The babe wails so loud he’ll signal our presence.”

“He’s a newborn, master dwarf. He’s been wailing every hour,” Brea snapped. “And will keep wailing for the days to come. No-one’s bound to overhear any noise coming from his home.”

They’d installed Fíli on a dusty bed, on the second floor of Agnessa’s small house. It was more of an attic than a real room, accessible through a staircase that no-one had used for years. The dwarves jumped when Bofur emerged at the top of the stairs, a lit candle in his hand.

In the flickering light, Brea examined Fíli, keenly aware of the eyes that followed her every movement. His breathing remained shallow and raspy, and his skin carried a bluish tinge. A ragged pulse jumped in his veins.

“I need help with his armor,” she instructed.

“I’ll assist you,” Kíli said at once.

His fingers were deft at removing the buckles and straps that held the armor in place. Vambraces, pauldrons and greaves were discarded to the floor. To Brea’s horror, they bore deep blade marks that spoke of the violence he’d been through. The breastplate revealed the source of the greatest wound Fíli had suffered. The back had been transpierced, and his blood had pooled and dried on the inside.

“We need to remove the mail,” Brea muttered, setting the broken breastplate to the ground.

That proved a trickier task, as she was loath to move Fíli more than necessary until she knew what his injuries were. Inch by inch they rolled the steel-woven shirt up to his chest, the tunic he wore beneath riding up as well.

“Oh Gods.” Brea blanched.

Purple and black bruises covered the left side of Fíli’s torso, beneath the golden hair that ran down to his navel. The skin was swollen and inflamed, and the whole side of his body seemed distorted, down to the leg that twisted on itself. Kíli swayed and grasped the edge of the bed.

“You can save him, right?” He peered into her eyes. “Right?”

She didn’t know how to respond. Truth was, she’d never expected his state to be so critical, and she’d only started her examination.

“We’ll bring you whatever you need.” Bofur supplied, his voice laced with anguish.

“Help me roll him over,” she told them, buying herself some time.

The extent of the disaster soon appeared to her in full. The pierced breastplate was proof of the tremendous strength Fíli’s opponent had possessed and the hatred that had driven his arm. The blade had entered Fíli’s back, inches from his spine. Blood still trickled out of the gaping wound, filling the room with a metallic stench. The gash was deep, and would require more than a simple suture. It was a wonder he was still alive.

They soon encountered a new complication. As Kíli and Bofur held him on his side Fíli started to wheeze, struggling for breath. His face turned purple.

“Lay him on his back!” Brea cried out at once.

She put her ear to his chest, mindful not to hurt him and noting absently the smell of his skin. Leather and sweat, and a herbal scent she could not recognize. The air hissed softly as it flowed in and out on the left side, despite the swollen flesh. On the right side, however, she heard no movement as the lung remained immobile. Brea had seen such injuries during her work in the hall of Dale. Those who’d suffered from it had died not long after, gasping for breath. The city had no master who could repair the damage the blade had inflicted, no surgeon skilled enough to re-inflate what she suspected to be a collapsed lung.

The dwarves were looking at her, expecting her diagnosis.

“I am sorry,” she shook her head. “These wounds are beyond my skill. There is none in Dale who can heal him.” She wrung her hands in dismay, a sense of helplessness growing in her stomach. She didn’t want to voice her thoughts about Fíli’s chances.

Kíli faltered. “No, you’re wrong.” He wiped his eyes angrily. “I’ll find someone.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have come here.” Dwalin drove his fist against the wall. “We should’ve stayed amongst us, instead of dragging him into this hole.”

Bofur protested, and voices rose in anger and sorrow.

Brea brushed her fingers against Fíli’s forearm, touched the rough skin of his hand. It was warm, as though he were only sleeping. She knew that he was fighting for his life with all the strength and spirit he had left. And yet it would not be enough.

Fíli was dying before her, and she could not save him.

oOoOoOo

Brea sat by the fire, trying to warm herself up despite the chill that had seeped inside her bones. Her hands trembled, and her throat burned with the tears she refused to shed. In the chair beside her, Agnessa was humming a lullaby for her son as she fed him. The child produced soft, gurgling noises, his small arms twitching as sucked on his mother’s breast, oblivious of the sorrow that had visited their home.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Brea said wearily, staring into the flames. “For letting us in at this hour. Especially given the circumstances.”

She’d remembered too late that Agnessa’s husband had perished in the fires of Laketown, killed by the dragon the dwarves had unwittingly unleashed upon the city. The woman would’ve had every reason to denounce them to the townsfolk, yet she’d held her tongue, offering them shelter instead.

“I owe you,” Agnessa replied softly. Brea watched her cradle her son, a smile on her face. “You don’t know how it was,” she said. “Life with him. None of you knew. It was a prison from which I couldn’t escape.” She kissed Maethor’s forehead. “Now I am free, and I have a son.” She looked Brea in the eye. “My child lives thanks to you. There is nothing I wouldn’t give you in payment for his life.”

“I didn’t mean to overstep that debt,” Brea murmured. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Agnessa raised her eyes towards the ceiling. The dwarves’ muted voices could be heard, rising and falling, as they devised new plans to save their comrade. “How bad is he?” she asked.

“Very.” Brea rubbed her eyes, reliving the disheartening scene once again. “He’s got a punctured lung, and many broken bones. He’s barely breathing, and bleeding from a wound in his back.”

“Can’t you help him?” Agnessa asked.

“I wish I could,” Brea whimpered. “These injuries… They are too serious, he’s almost gone…”

“I didn’t ask if you could heal him,” Agnessa interrupted her softly, “but if you could help him. Brea, you stood your ground against an orc who would’ve killed us, you brought my son into this world in the midst of war. There must be something you can do for that man, if you care for him.” She pondered. “There must be something someone can do.”

Suddenly, Brea felt the chill release its grip on her heart. “There is someone,” she breathed out. “Yes, someone can.”

oOoOoOo

The first light of dawn slipped into the streets of Dale, glimmering on the windows and warming up the city with the promise of a beautiful day. Straggling rats scurried down the gutters, turning in after a busy night. They scampered off before Brea as she raced uphill, her skirts flapping around her ankles.

She skidded to a halt in front of the biggest house in town, a former merchant’s home where the new king had taken up residence. The guards at the door scowled at her disheveled appearance.

“I must see the king,” she panted, doubling over to catch her breath. “It’s urgent.”

“The king is not up yet,” one of the men drawled out. “What’s your business with his Highness?”

“It’s personal,” she snapped, “Go wake him up if need be!”

“Hear that? It’s personal!” The men guffawed. “Little lady, this Highness is not that kind of man. Not that you’re not comely, eh?” One of them winked at her. “Come find me in an hour, you can take a look at my scepter.” They roared with laughter.

“If I only need one hand to hold it I’m not interested,” she snarled. “If you’re ever wounded, though, and need my help, I’ll be sure to remove it, say, by accident. Now go fetch Bard or you’ll have to explain to him why his chief healer has gone missing.”

“Oi, what’s with the ruckus?” A rough voice complained from the balcony. “It’s not bloody dawn yet, can’t a man have some peace?”

“Bard!” Brea stepped back to see him looking down at her, bare chested and hair tousled from sleep. She swallowed hard. “Uh, that’d be my fault.”

His face darkened. “What do you want?”

“To apologize. I’m so sorry, Bard, about yesterday. I regret what I said, that was uncalled for. And untrue.” She opened her hands. “I would’ve brought you flowers, had I known what you liked.”

Bard looked at her askance. “What do you want?” he said again, his annoyance tainted with curiosity. “You must be wanting something more than my forgiveness. Else you would’ve waited for me to wake. Like other people do.”

“You know me too well.” Brea waited for him to decide. She could see that he was trying to repress a smile, and hoped that he’d still be in such a merry mood by the time she was done talking. “Listen, I’ll even make you breakfast,” she added, “if you’d just listen to what I have to say.”


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”  
Lao Tzu_

oOoOoOo

_October 12 th, T.A. _ _2941_

The house was grand and spacious. Tall windows had been dusted off by a caring hand, allowing the morning light to illuminate what remained of the tapestries. Moldy carpets had been evacuated, the floors washed and scraped clean. Someone in the family had taken a liking to their new home, it seemed.

The guards led her to the former living room, which stood nearly empty save for a spotless wooden table and its chairs. None of them wished her a pleasant day.

“Are you hungry?” Bard asked as he entered. His dark hair was tied up again, showing the greying strands at the temples. He’d had time to dress in his usual worn-out coat and boots. “I am.” He eyed the empty table and smirked. “So… No breakfast, I assume?”

Brea pondered that at any other given moment she would’ve been thrilled to find herself alone with him. Yet now all she could think of was Fíli, slowly declining in a bed above Agnessa’s home. She recalled the feeling of his skin under her hands, and the way his lips parted when he smiled. How that ridiculous mustache of his swayed when he moved.

“Believe me, you’re better off without my cooking.”

“I see.” He lowered himself into a chair. “I have the feeling I won’t like this conversation.”

“You know me too well.” Brea considered sitting down as well, but decided against it. She wrapped her arms around herself, her hand moved to her mouth of its own volition. What she’d say, and the way she’d say it, would decide Fíli’s fate. She tasted blood as she pulled too hard on a bit of skin.

“Bard, I am sorry, you’ll be upset. Angry even. But please,” she pleaded, “Please hear me out. Last night…” She paused. “There are dwarves in Dale. One of them needs help – your help.”

He scowled. “The nerve of that little bugger. Brea, I am done with dwarves, I thought I’d made that clear.”

“You did.”

But I had no choice, she’d wanted to add, only to realize that was a lie. She’d chosen knowing full well what the consequences could be. Only the alternative was such that Brea had refused to consider it. Words poured out of her mouth. “He’s dying, Bard. He’s suffering, he’s bleeding, he can’t breathe, and I won’t stand by and watch. I refuse to.” She realized that she was crying. “I can’t help him, I know I can’t. And neither can anyone else here. Anyone but you.”

“But what would you have me do?” Bard recoiled. “If you can’t think of a way…”

“I know a way.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her bleeding hand. “There are people who can save him. And I need you to ask them to.”

She proceeded to explain. Her plan was simple, so simple that it could work brilliantly or fail just as fast. From the look on Bard’s face Brea could see that he didn’t like her idea. His whole body told her likewise as he crossed his arms, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Brea,” he spoke carefully, “I’ve nothing but respect for you and your skill. You’ve helped birth my children, you’ve helped our people. So I’m telling you this: it won’t work.” He stood and paced. “Thranduil owes me nothing. Why would he listen to our pleas for help when he has his own people to think of?”

“You’re right, he doesn’t have to.” Brea whispered. “To me he won’t listen, but to you he might. From one king to another, he may grant you this favor. Besides,” she added, “He might consider helping the future ruler of Erebor. Fíli is the heir of Thorin Oakenshield, the last descendant of the line of Durin.”

“Of all the dwarves…” Bard cursed “Oakenshield would’ve let us starve if not for the hobbit. He was ready to wage war against us. And you hope this will sway king Thranduil?”

“Hope is all Fíli has,” Brea answered. “He’s running out of time.” She pulled herself upright and stared him in the eye. “With or without you I’m going, Bard. But I’ll be easier with you by my side.”

“What do you owe him?” he muttered. “Why is he so important to you?”

Before Brea could answer a quiet voice said, “He’s important to me.”

Sigrid was standing in the doorway, regal and composed, as was fit for the daughter of a king. She was dressed unpretentiously, her hair tied in a simple bun. Brea guessed that she was the caring spirit who’d restored the house to its former beauty.

“He’s important to me, because he saved my life.” Sigrid walked up to her father and reached out to touch his arm. “Da, he defended us when the orcs came to our home. He cared for his brother when Kíli was wounded. He helped us all escape the city when the dragon attacked.” Her hand moved to caress his cheek. “I don’t know who Thorin Oakenshield was, but I know Fíli. He’s a kind man, a brave man. Please, Da, save him if you can.”

oOoOoOo

The elven camp lay at the foot of the mountain, nestled within a crook of its arm. High tents of green and silver stood in perfect order around the king’s pavilion. From afar, the encampment resembled a tidy garden in springtime. But this garden was well protected: heavily armed sentinels stood watch at the perimeter, each one as unmoving as a statue.

They raised their halberds before Bard and his retinue. “Your Majesty Bard, king of Dale,” one of them announced in a melodious voice. We were not expecting you.”

Bard glowered at the sound of his title. “I am here to see king Thranduil,” he replied, “I must speak to him urgently.”

“Please come forth,” the guard allowed. “His Majesty will be expecting you.”

As they rode past the guards, Bard gave Brea a sharp look. “The Elvenking wields a form of magic,” he whispered. “Beware of what you say.”

She fidgeted in her saddle. Her nervousness about the upcoming meeting added up to her unease on horseback. Brea had learned to swim when she was five, but she’d never ridden before and it showed. Her sweet-tempered mare ignored the jerk on the reins and followed Bard’s steed into the camp.

The encampment was as disciplined from up close as it looked from afar. Neat alleys divided groups of tents, and colored banners indicated their purpose. White-colored flags floated above the soldiers’ housings. Green flags indicated supplies, silver for the armory. But everywhere Brea looked, the blue of the infirmaries dominated in number. Bard had been right, she mused. The elves too had their share of wounded.

They rode up to the king’s pavilion, a magnificent construction of green and gold. Bard dismounted and held the reins of Brea’s mare while she struggled with her skirts, dropping to the ground as gracefully as she could.

“Come in,” the guards said, “His Majesty will see you now.”

The magnificence of the king’s tent shamed Bard’s house, and even the palace of Dale seemed like a shabby ruin in comparison. Lush carpets covered the ground, tables of pale carven wood were loaded with scrolls, bottles and delicate goblets. In the middle of the room, on a sculptured throne, sat the Elvenking.

His appearance was that of a young man of cold and unblemished beauty. Long silver hair framed his face, beneath a crown of golden twigs and thorns. His eyes, however, were without age, and full of ancient sorrow.

“Your Majesty,” Bard greeted him. He nudged Brea and she lowered into the first curtsy of her life.

“King Bard.” The Elvenking’s voice was cool and even, like a deep river in wintertime. The surface may have been frozen, but strong currents ran beneath. “What do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I have come to ask a favor,” Bard said, “From one king to another.”

“And what would that favor be?” the king wondered. “Have you come to reconsider your share of the treasure?”

“No, your Majesty. The fourteenth part was agreed on, we need not more. My request is of another nature.” He gestured for Brea to step forth.

She gulped, trying to remember the words she’d so carefully prepared during the ride. They all seemed to slip away under the king’s unwavering gaze. “Your Majesty,” she began, wiping her sweaty palms on her dress. “I have pleaded with Bard to come before you, to ask for a favor only you can grant.”

“And he agreed.” The Elvenking raised an eyebrow. “I am intrigued.” He leaned forward in his seat. “My powers are great and my riches vast, which one of these do you covet, I wonder?”

“None,” she said. “I need you to save someone’s life.”

“Hmm.” He cocked his head to the side, studying her. “Some lives are worth more than others, surely you know that.”

“It’s not for me to decide. I just want him to live.”

Thranduil’s face was impassible, but his voice was soft when he said, “You care for him very much.”

Brea wondered if he was reading her mind. “His name is Fíli. If one of your healers could…”

“A dwarf.” he interrupted her, his mouth twisting into a grimace of utter contempt. “You’ve come seeking my help for a dwarf, and the offspring of the wretched line of Durin at that.”

“Durin’s heir lies dying,” Brea acquiesced. She stepped forward, reminding herself of why she came. “I know elves are blessed with magic that can heal even the gravest of wounds. The chance to save him lies in your hands. Should you succeed, the king of Erebor will be forever in your debt. If you refuse, his brother will ascend to the throne. And he is not like to forget your choice.”

“What care I for the displeasure of dwarves,” Thranduil announced, but he seemed to consider her words. An uneasy silence set in before he spoke again. “I will make you an offer,” he said. “The same offer I made Thorin Oakenshield, and one he so imprudently refused.” He gestured for wine and a servant hurried forward, bearing a silver goblet. “The white gems of Lasgalen still lie within the mountain. Bring them to me, and you will have your life.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Bard began but she interrupted him.

“Your Majesty, there is no time,” she pleaded. “Fíli is dying as we speak. I promise I’ll do anything in my power to bring you those gems, but please, help him!”

“What a pity.” The Elvenking seemed amused. “As I said, I care not for one more dwarf, however ancient is his blood. None of my healers will help you before my rightful property has been restored to me.”

“But he will die!” Brea shouted. She felt Bard pull her back and struggled against his grip. “Haven’t enough perished already?”

“Brea, enough!” Bard hissed, pulling her away. The king’s guards had advanced, weapons at the ready.

“Your powers are vast, but they’re useless,” she whispered. “There’s no compassion in you, only greed.”

oOoOoOo

“That went well.”

Bard’s voice was as somber as his face as they robe back, the disapproving stares of the elven sentinels boring into their backs.

“Tell me, what that your plan? To antagonize the Elvenking and have us killed?” he seethed, but Brea would not answer.

Nothing she would say would change what had happened, or improve the outcome of the discussion. She had failed to convince the Elvenking, or perhaps she’d been foolish to think he could be swayed by logic or prayer. And now Bard was angry with her as well. She’d infuriated two kings in one day, which had to be some sort of record.

In any case, there was little Brea could do now. Choices were scarce, each one grimmer than the other. She could return to Fíli’s side and face his brother, whom she had so painstakingly convinced to trust her plan. She could also attempt to save him herself, praying that she wouldn’t kill him in the process, and beg Kíli to retrieve the gems the Elvenking wanted, so that Fíli’s chances were not ruined by her temper.

When Brea had understood that the offer, however fair it seemed, was only an illusion, she’d been devastated. It was a farce destined to show generosity when there was none, a winning situation for the Elvenking whatever happened. Thranduil cared little if Fíli died - perhaps it would even suit him.

Brea didn’t understand what enmities opposed the two races, didn’t know the history of the elves and dwarves’ squabbles. She cared little for the future of either of the two, except for the one dwarf she’d come to know a little better. Whenever she thought of dwarves she thought of Fíli first: of his easy smile, his extravagant appearance and the gentleness he carried in his heart.

“Wait!”

The voice calling them was soft and harmonious, and Brea didn’t have to turn around to know it came from an elf. Bard halted and Brea’s mare stopped as well, pulling the reins from her hands to munch on the green grass of the valley.

The elf was a woman, dressed in the blue apron of the healers. Her blond hair was braided away from her face in intricate tresses. “Here,” she said, proffering a small vial to Brea. “This should help your friend.” She glanced towards the camp in unease. “It will stop the bleeding for a time, and accelerate the mending of the body, but it may not suffice. I suggest you hurry to retrieve the gems his Majesty desires, or it will be for naught.”

“Why are you doing this?” Bard asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The woman smiled sadly. “I too have loved once, and tasted the bitterness of being powerless. As did our king. It is no good reason for any more to die because he chose to forget it.”


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_“It's not hard to make decisions when you know what your values are.”  
Roy Disney_

oOoOoOo

_October 12 th, T.A. _ _2941_

The afternoon stretched on in the little room under the roof, endless and idle. It seemed like the beginning of a bad joke, Kíli mused: a single bed, a dying man and three dwarves. A pack of cards was missing from the picture, but none of them had the heart to play. They’d been jumpy and restless ever since Brea had left the house that morning, flinching at the slightest sound that came from below, fearing betrayal. But no threat had come to interrupt their wait, not the slightest event to distinguish one hour from another save for the infant’s wails.

Just as Kíli was starting to itch for something to happen at last, the house door squealed open under their feet. Dwalin grabbed his axe, Bofur his mattock. They slid into a battle stance, ready to defend their king from whoever came up the stairs. Kíli remained behind but kept his hand on his bow, preparing himself to fight for Fíli’s life till the end of his own, as his brother would’ve done for him. Yet it was Brea who appeared in the doorway.

Bofur relaxed, swinging his mattock over his shoulder, but Dwalin remained on his guard. His muttering about humans and treachery plainly showed he didn’t trust the woman, and only stayed because of his loyalty to the line of Durin. Truth was, Kíli himself didn’t know what to make of her. She’d not ratted them out yet, but Fíli’s state hadn’t improved either since she’d bandaged him up. Kíli was beginning to wonder whether he’d made a mistake in coming.

“What did he say?” he asked at once, pushing past Dwalin.

“He refused.”

Both his companions exploded with curses at the ill news. Kíli suddenly remembered how much Thorin had despised vulgarity, reprimanding anyone who’d let himself go in such a manner within his earshot. Kíli realized that both men had accepted his death in their own way. Not to say they didn’t grieve for their leader, but they’d at least acknowledged that he was gone.

Kíli balled his hands into fists, sorely tempted to give way to his anger as well. His rage and pent-up grief were begging for release for too long now, ever since that cursed moment on Ravenhill. It was then that he noticed that Brea was watching Fíli and toying with something in her pocket, her face a mixture of hesitation and, strangely, hope.

“What’s that?” he said, nodding towards her. With some reluctance she produced a vial of transparent liquid. The bottle was delicately sculpted and shiny, marking it as an elven token.

“Poison!” Dwalin roared, jumping in front of Fíli’s bed and causing Brea to scuttle back in alarm. He raised his axe. “You’re not coming near him!”

Downstairs, the babe woke and began to cry again.

“It’s not poison!” Brea protested. “Well, it shouldn’t be.”

Bofur’s face lit up with hope. “Is it the cure?”

He’d been the one who had located Brea after they fled Erebor with Fíli, and the one to suggest they sought her out in the first place. For some obscure reason, he’d seemed to trust the woman from the start. Yet Bofur was no fool, and if he saw something in her that Kíli didn’t, it was worth trusting.

Kíli stepped forward and pushed the axe down, much to Dwalin’s disappointment. “If it’s not poison, what’s it then?”

Brea held it out gingerly, examining its contents. The frail bottle caught the light of the candle, casting multicolored glimmers onto the walls. “The Elvenking refused to help,” she explained, “But one of his healers gave me this. It’s a remedy that should stop the bleeding for a time.”

“I don’t trust her.” Dwalin lay a hand on Kíli’s arm. “Kíli, your brother hasn’t been better since we came to this wretched town. She didn’t cure him, did she? Then she promised she’d find a healer, and now she’s back with an elven potion?” He spat. “I say, we break this thing and return to Erebor.”

“Don’t you dare!” At Dwalin’s words Brea stepped back, clutching the vial to her heart. “Thranduil’s a churl, but that doesn’t mean all elves are like him.” Her eyes blazed with anger. “I sure hope all dwarves are not as charming as you, and yet I still tolerate your presence.”

Dwalin turned a shade of crimson, the veins on his neck throbbed in fury. Before he had the chance to retort, she continued. “This may be Fíli’s only chance to survive. Kíli, I know you have no reason to trust me but I swear, I’d never hurt your brother.”

The responsibility for the decision was his, and Kíli hated it. So far he’d led a simple life, leaving choices and politics to his uncle and, if necessary, to his brother. With three living heirs, the line of Durin had been sufficiently certain in its survival not to train him for the throne. He was a warrior, he liked to say, not a thinker.

If it’d been his life on the line, he would’ve drank the potion without blinking. Their mother had called him reckless, wrenching out a promise to return unharmed, but Fíli hadn’t needed to make such a vow. Kíli wished he knew what his brother would’ve done, had the roles been inverted.

Though he shared Dwalin’s contempt for elvenfolk in general and their king in particular, he needed to believe there was still hope for Fíli. His only certainty was that Brea cared for him. He’d witnessed as much when she thought he wasn’t looking, her touches innocent enough and yet not quite so. Her eyes had been wistful when she’d contemplated Fíli’s body, despite the wounds and bruises that marked it.

“Give him the potion,” he said.

“Kíli, no!” Dwalin protested at once. “Thorin would never have approved of this!”

“Thorin is dead.” Kíli raised his chin in rebellion. He could feel tears stinging his eyes as he said it, for the first time in days. “But he’s taught me to trust my guts. Right now they’re telling me that her intentions are good, and that Fíli needs our help.” He looked at Dwalin, then at Bofur. “We’ve tried everything, and everything failed. I’ll face the consequences if he dies by my fault, but I can’t live with myself if I do nothing.”

Bofur lay a hand on his shoulder. Kíli could see that he too was tearing up. “We’re with you, lad.” He shot Dwalin a look. “Aren’t we?”

Dwalin stood aside, his shaven head hung low.

Brea scuttled to the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress before uncorking the potion with trembling hands. A clean herbal scent filled the room. It smelled of green meadows in the summer, of sunshine and joy. It reminded Kíli of their games as children, home in the Blue Mountains. The exhaustion that weighed him down disappeared for a second, and the grief he’d felt lifted from his heart.

Brea poured the liquid down Fíli’s throat and wiped the droplets from his beard. Kíli watched her gentle movements, feeling like an intruder.

“And now?” Bofur asked.

“Now we wait.”

oOoOoOo

As the evening turned into night, Brea granted Bofur’s request for the story of her visit to the elven camp, and her discussion with their king. She related the offer the Elvenking had made and watched their reactions with apprehension.

“It’s impossible,” Dwalin professed. “The white gems are the property of the King under the Mountain, and that elfling has no right to them.” He stood with his arms crossed and his back against the wall, as far as he could from Brea without being too distant from the bed. He guarded his king without even thinking about it, Kíli realized.

“It’s the only way Thranduil will agree to send someone to help Fíli,” Brea argued from her corner of the room.

“But do we trust him?” Bofur mused. “How do we know he won’t take the gems and kill us?”

“We don’t,” Kíli replied somberly just as Brea said, “Bard will hold him to his word.”

Dwalin scoffed. “Your king is a commoner, he rules over a ruin. He doesn’t have the power to oppose the elves.”

Brea seethed. “You are forgetting yourself, master dwarf. Bard killed the dragon your company has unleashed. He’s brought us here, and saved the folk again when the orcs attacked. He’s earned the respect of all, the Elvenking included.”

Dwalin opened his mouth again but Kíli intervened. “Enough!” he snapped, rubbing his eyes. “Enough.” He glanced over to the bed, where Fíli lay motionless, his state unchanged. “If that’s the only way to save my brother, I’ll fetch the gems myself.”

“Dáin won’t let you,” Bofur whispered. “Remember what he said…”

“I remember.”

Kíli was reluctant to think of their last exchange, that night in the gloom of the mountain, when the cries of the dying echoed under the stony vaults. Remembering exhausted him even more, bringing back the grief, the pain and the worry as he relived those moments. How he’d shouted for help, bleeding from a stomach wound but refusing treatment until Fíli had been taken care of. How helpless Oín had been, how ashamed he’d looked. How Dáin’s brows had knitted at the mention of seeking help outside of the mountain.

“We are the dwarves of Erebor,” he’d glowered, waving his hammer. “We are the line of Durin. We live and die amongst our kin, and don’t need meddling from the other folk.”

Kíli had stayed just long enough to get himself bandaged up, then fled with those closest to him in the middle of the night. Dwalin and Bofur had offered to carry Fíli to the one person who they thought wouldn’t refuse to help. And all of it had been in vain. The potion didn’t work.

A soft moan startled him, almost undetectable but still there. He looked over at his brother to see him move slowly, emerging from unconsciousness. Fíli’s fingers twitched, as though trying to grasp the hilt of his sword. His eyes fluttered open.

“Fíli!” Kíli rushed to his side at once. “How are you feeling, brother ?” Dwalin and Bofur gathered around as well, their eager faces welcoming Fíli back into the world of the living. His own heart swelled with hope and joy.

“Like I’ve been crushed under Mahal’s hammer,” Fíli muttered. He struggled to swallow, his lips parched. “Where am I?”

“In Dale,” Kíli replied. “We had to smuggle you out of Erebor after Dáin declared no dwarf should receive foreign help.”

Fíli struggled to rise and winced in pain as the wounds made themselves known. Kíli intervened, pushing him down by the shoulders. “Oh no you don’t. You’ve got a few holes in you that need to mend before you can get up.”

“Where is Thorin?”

Kíli had dreaded that question. He’d tried to prepare an answer that would best spare his brother from grief, yet now the words refused to come, and he struggled to get them out. “He’s… He’s gone, Fíli.” He choked. “I am sorry.”

His brother’s face went white. He didn’t try to rise anymore, letting himself fall down onto the mattress in despair.

“How?” he whispered. When Kíli didn’t answer, he insisted: “How?” And then he growled, remembering. “Azog.”

“Our uncle defeated the Defiler once and for all,” Kíli muttered, not finding any comfort in that knowledge. “He slew him on the frozen lake, atop Ravenhill, after you… fell.”

Fíli closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “I was ambushed,” he whispered hoarsely. “I should’ve escaped. I could’ve helped Thorin fight, and maybe…”

“Don’t blame yourself, lad.” Dwalin’s gruff voice interrupted him. The burly dwarf lay a hand on Fíli’s arm as gently as he could and patted it. “I was there, and I couldn’t save him either.” Kíli saw tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I was his kin. I should’ve protected him with my life.” Fíli’s hands clenched into fists in rage as he lay helpless. “I failed him.” He looked at Kíli. “I failed our mother. She’ll never see her brother again…”

“But she’ll see her sons.” Kíli smiled through his own tears. It was painful but he knew he had to try, if only not to lose the habit. “Our mother will get to see both of us again.”

“No thanks to me.” Fíli insisted.

Bofur coughed gently, rolling his eyes towards Brea. Kíli took the hint. The sight of a familiar face was like to lift his brother’s spirits, if only for a moment. She was watching them with attention, but lingered in the shadows, hiding from his brother’s sight. Whether it was decency or cowardice, he couldn’t tell.

“Well, I’m not the one our mother should be thanking, either.” He motioned for to Brea to step closer.

She obeyed and came forward, her arms wrapped around her body as if to protect herself from their gaze. She was biting her nails again, a habit Kíli found baffling in someone so determined when it came to defending those she cared for.

“This is whom you need to be grateful to,” Kíli smirked.

Fíli glanced up and his eyes met hers. He didn’t speak, but Kíli saw something soften within his eyes. His hands relaxed against the sheets.

“How are you feeling?” Brea asked, hovering uncertainly by his side. “Are you in pain?”

“It’s nothing,” Fíli said. Kíli suspected that he was boasting, pretending to feel better than he really did.

Brea shook her head. “I need you to be honest with me. You’re gravely wounded, and not out of danger yet.”

Fíli squirmed in the bed, assessing his wounds and capacity of movement. He bit back a cry of pain and she hurried to his side.

“Don’t,” she instructed in a stern voice, but the hand she lay on his arm belied her severity.

“How bad…?” Fíli breathed out, still reeling from the pain.

“You’ve got what I believe to be a punctured lung, and half your bones are broken…”

“I’ve been worse,” he quipped.

“…Including your leg. I need to set it straight. I don’t know…”

She hesitated and Fíli noticed. Before Kíli could intervene he grabbed her wrist, grinding his teeth at the pain the movement provoked. “Tell me,” he pleaded, his eyes locked on hers. “Please.”

Kíli could tell that Brea was unwilling to answer. Whatever her reasons were, she yielded to his brother’s plea. “I don’t know how it’ll heal… If it ever heals completely.”

Fíli swallowed hard and looked away. A crippled king was unheard of in all of dwarven kingdoms, where strength and battle prowess, not wisdom, were what rulers were known for. Brea bit her lip, her body language responding at once to his brother’s distress.

She lay her hand on his shoulder. “You must rest,” she implored, “and believe in your strength. Your brother needs you…” She hesitated. “Your people need you.”

Kíli watched them both from his side of the bed. There was an intimacy in their gestures neither of them realized yet, and he understood that it was time for him to go.

He caught Brea’s attention. “You did your part. Now it’s my turn to do mine.” He leaned towards his brother and touched his forehead to Fíli’s. “Rest, brother. Heal. I’ll return soon.”

Fíli frowned. “I’ll come with you,” he protested in a weak voice, and Kíli understood it was abandonment he feared, the uselessness of those wounded whose only life is to fight. He could still taste his own despair, back in Laketown, when Thorin had ordered him to remain behind.

He shook his head. “There is something I must do to ensure your recovery.” He grasped Fíli’s shoulder, squeezing it gently to emphasize his words. “You would’ve done the same for me, brother. I am leaving you in good hands, and you must promise me that you’ll listen to her until my return.”

Fíli stayed silent before responding. “I promise,” he nodded faintly.

“Good.” Kíli gestured to his companions who bowed, taking their leave of their king. “When I return, we’ll ride to Erebor together.”


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_“Some people see scars, and it is wounding they remember. To me they are proof of the fact that there is healing.”  
Linda Hogan_

oOoOoOo

_October 13 th, T.A. _ _2941_

Brea watched Fíli sleep, hovering outside of his field of vision but watching intently how his chest rose and fell beneath the covers. His breathing was easier since the potion, but she could see how hesitant it still was. His eyes were closed, his face serene. The morning light glimmered in his hair, reflecting on the beads braided within. She admired from afar the curves of the muscles on his arms, impressive even at rest. The apparent ruggedness of the dwarves had led her to believe his skin would be rough, not pale and soft as she’d found it to be.

He was very different from what Brea had known or expected. She’d met her husband when she was seventeen. Ivar had been tall, wiry and brown-haired. He was the only man she’d known, the only one she’d been with. It seemed like a lifetime ago, so far that she’d almost forgotten what desire felt like.

Her thoughts were inappropriate and ill-timed, but she found herself wondering what it’d be like to be with Fíli. Were his lips soft, what did he taste like? How would his hands feel on her skin?

“Are you there?” Fíli’s voice brought her back abruptly.

She waited a second or two before approaching, pretending she hadn’t been waiting for him to wake. “I’m here,” she said, sitting down beside him, mindful of his injuries. “How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty.” He licked his lips.

Brea scolded herself for not having anticipated his needs, considering the bloodloss he’d suffered. “Of course. I’ll get you some water.”

She hurried downstairs to borrow a cup from Agnessa, who was cradling her son before the window. Fíli was watching the door when she returned. Was it fear that she wouldn’t come back or homesickness she saw on his face?

Brea sat down again and realized he’d need assistance, only this time he’d be awake when she touched him. If she announced her intentions he’d be free to refuse, though Brea hoped he wouldn’t. “I’ll help you up,” she warned before sliding a hand behind his neck. Fíli’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t jerk away, which reassured her somewhat. He drank in long, hungry gulps.

“More?” she asked once the cup was empty.

The answer came as a slight shake of his head. Some water had trickled down his throat, droplets pooling in the dip at the base of his neck. She felt the urge to wipe them away.

Fíli was watching her intently, his blue eyes fixed on hers. A blush creep up her neck, and she started to move away, hoping he wouldn’t see, when she found her hand trapped by his. Somehow he’d moved without her noticing. His fingers closed on her own, gently but firmly.

“I still don’t know your name,” he said.

“Brea.” Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat. “It’s Brea.”

“Brea.” The name rolled off his tongue. He seemed to try it out, deciding whether he liked it. “How long have I been here?”

He was still holding her hand. The room was cold, but Brea was starting to sweat.

“Two days.” Since he remained silent, she felt the urge to elaborate. “Kíli and the others brought you to my house two nights ago. But I couldn’t let you stay there. Here is safer.”

“Where is here?”

“You’re still in Dale. In the house of someone who owes me a favor,” she replied. “Enough not to betray your presence. You’ve nothing to fear.” She was warmer by the second, her stomach tingling. His touch was stirring sensations she hadn’t felt for years. Fíli was the one bedbound, but the balance of power was not in her favor.

He looked at her. “I am not afraid,” he said eventually. “Not for me.”

“For Kíli?” she guessed. His grip on hers relaxed and she seized the occasion to flee, to escape his touch and regain her composure.

Fíli remained silent. Brea guessed that his thoughts were focused on his brother and his whereabouts. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear to hide her flustered state and headed downstairs to refill the cup, in case he’d get thirsty again.

“Brea,” he called her name, halting her stride. Her deepest muscles contracted, reacting to his voice. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, not trusting her voice to answer, and hurried out of the room.

oOoOoOo

She almost ran back home, driven by the emotions Fíli’s touch had evoked and the certainty of their indecency. He was wounded, he was alone, far from his kin and just as condemned as he’d been two days ago. Desiring the man she had promised to take care of was unprofessional to say the least. Brea would’ve screamed to release the pent-up tension had she not feared to wake the neighborhood.

She slowed down to a brisk pace a few houses away from her own, and then some more until she reached the door. At this hour Alva’s family was bound to be awake, and Brea would have to explain why they’d not seen her come out, but it was easier than facing her aunt.

Two days ago Brea had managed to slip back into her bed unnoticed, tossing and turning under her covers until she could decently rise and claim a good night’s sleep. It was fortunate that Mildred couldn’t see, or she would’ve spotted the dark circles under her niece’s eyes. The others who asked received an answer about nightmares and fatigue. At work she’d pretended to be on a mission for the king, which was not entirely false as she’d been spotted riding off with Bard that same day. But since that morning Brea had only flitted in and out of the house, which was unusual enough for her aunt to notice.

Today she knew she’d have to explain herself.

She pushed the door open with caution, considering the possibility of people still sleeping. Bodil and Gerda met her in the kitchen, yawning but dressed. “Morning,” she greeted them, waving at Alva and disappearing into their room before any questions were raised.

“Hello, darling.” Mildred was sitting at the table, her knitting needles in hand.

“Morning, Ma.” She leaned in for a kiss which her aunt accepted, snaking an arm behind her neck to pull Brea into an embrace. “It’s been too long since I had a proper greeting,” Mildred complained, but her smile belied her words.

“Sorry, Ma.” Brea discarded her soiled clothes, fishing for her other dress inside a basket by the bed.

“You seem in a hurry,” her aunt commented as she resumed her knitting.

“I have to get to work.” Brea belted her dress and smoothed out the skirts. “The worst is past, but there are still people needing care.”

“Is Bard helping you at work?”

She turned on her heels to stare at her aunt. The needles clicked steadily on.

“I helped him with… something.”

“Mm-hm.” Her aunt smiled knowingly. “He’s a good man, Brea. I am happy for you.”

“Ma, no.” She sighed. “It’s not like that.”

“Is it not? People say you two have been seen riding together.” She paused in her work, staring to the window with a wistful look on her face. “I’ve never gone riding in my life…”

Brea rubbed her eyes, hoping that talk of riding had not taken another meaning in the townsfolk’s mouths. “We have, but…”

“It’s only natural, darling! Nothing to be ashamed about. Bard’s wife, may she rest in peace, was a good woman but she’s been gone for…”

“Ma! Stop!”

Brea regretted shouting at once as Mildred winced and clutched her needles to her breast. “Ma, I’m sorry.” She came to sit beside her aunt and lay a hand on her arm. She was relieved when Mildred didn’t recoil at her touch. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Her aunt covered her hand with her own. She caressed Brea’s skin briefly before asking: “Honey, what’s wrong? You’re trembling.”

Brea’s hand shook, as did her whole body when she dissolved into sobs of exhaustion. Her aunt’s arms around her she cried, releasing the fear, the pressure and loneliness she’d bottled up for days. Mildred smoothed her hair, murmuring sweet words into her ear like when she was little. “Tell me,” she coaxed, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

So Brea did. She poured her heart out, about Fíli and Bard and the Elvenking, about the dreadful injuries she’d seen and the people she’d lost on that table in the hall. The fear that twisted her stomach at the thought of losing Fíli as well, and the unbidden things she felt for him, she told her aunt everything.

When the tears subsided she sniffed and leaned away from her aunt’s embrace. Mildred remained silent as Brea wiped her now puffy face. “I understand now,” she said in a soft voice. “And I agree.” She reached out to find Brea’s hand again. “We will not let him die, darling. I promise you.”

Feeling like a child again, Brea nodded. She’d just gained another ally in her battle against death.

oOoOoOo

The palace kitchens had been arranged to accommodate the needs of the healers and those who worked for them. The high-vaulted chambers had been cleared of rubble and rotting furniture to leave space for trestle tables where poultices and potions were prepared. The walls were lined with shelves stocked with equipment destined for the hall. Healers seldom came to the kitchens, relying on children to fetch the supplies they needed. Yet the position offered the advantage of being able to fetch whatever they needed themselves without being questioned.

Brea and Mildred walked in during breakfast time, when the staff was scarce and only one or two women in charge of preparations remained on duty. “Good morning,” Brea said cheerfully to the stern-looking matron who supervised the rooms that day. “My aunt is suffering from a headache. I’m here to get something for her pain.”

“A headache, you say?” she repeated sullenly but did not chase them out, recognizing Brea as one of those who worked in the hall.

“Yes. It hurts on the left side of my head.” Mildred touched her temple.

“Then why are you here?” The woman eyed them with distrust. “You could’ve stayed at home while your daughter here got you the remedy.”

“Walking helps with the pain,” Brea intervened, patting her aunt’s arm in what she hoped to be a compassionate manner.

“So it does.” Mildred nodded.

Brea glanced around quickly, noting where the supplies she needed lay. Poultices she could make herself, and bandages were easy to come by as well. Splints, on the other hand, were stored in the kitchens, together with the flaxen rope that served to bind them together. Brea would need felt as well, to bandage Fíli’s leg before she tied it up.

The matron still appeared unconvinced. “There’s been folk coming in,” she muttered, “Taking potions to soothe their grief. What tells me you’re not one of them?” she inquired, her hands on her hips. “What shall we tell them sick folk when we run out because of you?”

“You’re right.” Mildred disentangled her arm from Brea’s and lay a trembling hand on her chest. “I’ve seen grief enough in my life to drown in potions, to be sure.” Her voice was quivering. “I’ve lost my husband when I was expecting,” she added. “He went to work one day, fishing on the lake, never to return.”

Brea watched Mildred as she raised a hand to her eyes, wiping off a tear. “I lost the babe, too.”

The woman seemed uneasy. She glanced towards Brea, who did her best to appear stricken. She didn’t have to try hard, shook by her aunt’s story. She hadn’t known any of it, she realized, remembering when Mildred took her in at her parents’ death. Brea had never questioned why she was unmarried or childless before.

“Then the Gods took my sister,” her aunt continued, her voice breaking with emotion. “My Mara and her husband, only their little one survived the fire.” She reached out towards Brea who took her hand, not trusting herself to speak lest she cried.

“Ma, enough,” Brea whispered. “Let’s go.” She tried to pull her away.

Her aunt sobbed and gripped her arm, leaning against Brea, unsteady and shaking.

“How dreadful!” The guardian of the kitchen was near panic, casting anxious glances towards the doors. No help came from there, as everyone else was still enjoying breakfast at the old marketplace, a good ten minutes’ walk from the palace.

“I worked hard to raise her right, I did.” Mildred mourned, tears streaming down her face. She closed her eyes. “And when I lost my eyesight…” With a small cry she crumpled in Brea’s arms.

“I’ll get help!” The matron darted towards the doors.

As soon as the wooden panes closed on her, Mildred pushed herself up. She produced a handkerchief from her pockets and dabbed at her face. “Take what you need,” she commanded. “We don’t have much time.”

Brea wiped her eyes hastily and headed towards the shelves. She wrestled a dozen splints and a coil of rope beneath Fíli’s cloak before pocketing a potion for the pain. “Let’s go,” she hissed.

They exited the kitchens briskly, surveying the surroundings for the woman’s return. But the streets were empty save for those who trickled in to take their post for the day.

“I didn’t know,” Brea murmured as they walked back home. “For your husband… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Mildred cackled. “He was a good for nothing lout who left me for some floozy. Nothing there to regret.”

Brea paused to look at her. “But you said…”

“Never mind what I said, dear.” Her aunt shrugged. “That was a small lie for a greater good. You keep your mind on that fellow, and you save his life. That’s all that matters now.”


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”  
Allen Saunders_

oOoOoOo

_October 13 th, T.A. 2941_

The Lonely Mountain loomed above them when the sun rose, and the first rays to reach the valley warmed the last of their journey towards Erebor. The city’s gates had been brought down by Smaug nearly two hundred years ago, and rebuilt into a fortification under Thorin’s rule. Last Kíli had looked at the mountain façade, the wall had been demolished to allow the company’s last stand. Now the barricades had been raised again, he noted, spikes and spears jutting from between slabs of stone.

“Someone’s been busy,” Bofur remarked as they neared the bridge.

“And someone’s waiting for us,” Dwalin added, nodding towards the parapet.

Kíli squinted against the sun. Indeed, atop the walls of Erebor, movement indicated that sentries had been set, and that their approach hadn’t gone unnoticed. Not that he had something to hide or be ashamed of. Kíli’s faith in his decision had been renewed when Fíli’s eyes had opened again, and he’d not change a thing if given the chance.

“That’s a mighty welcome party,” Bofur mumbled, swinging his mattock from his shoulder to his hands.

Dáin Ironfoot, king of the Iron Hills and victor in the battle of the Five Armies, was standing at the doors of Erebor, his retinue at his side. As they approached, Kíli saw that his mustache, shaped as a boar’s tusks and tipped with iron spikes, was quivering in anger. He was being treated like a dwarfling, Kíli realized, about to be scolded for some silliness he’d done. Annoyance flared in his heart.

“And so the heirs of Durin return to Erebor,” Dáin called out. “Or heir, should I say. Where is your brother? Did you leave him in a ditch somewhere, to wait for the help of humans?” He looked at his people and laughed. His escort guffawed along, his right hand Nárin loudest of all.

“Where I left my brother, your king,” Kíli stressed, “Is none of your business.”

Dáin sobered. “Fíli is indeed my king by right of blood,” he agreed amiably, “Which is why I believe it is folly to entrust another folk with his life. Come, Kíli!” he opened his arms. “Let us not quarrel on the doorstep. Allow me to send my people to find him and bring him back amongst his kin.”

“Never!” Kíli grit his teeth, his hand clenched on the grip of his bow. He saw Nárin and his henchmen reach for their weapons as well.

“Now, now. No need for bloodshed amongst us.” Dáin gestured to his men to stand down. “You are young, Kíli, and brash. If you won’t listen to me, perhaps you’ll heed the counsel of your own people.”

He stood aside, motioning for someone to come forth. Kíli’s heart fell when he recognized the dwarf who stood beside Dáin.

“Brother, no!” Dwalin lamented behind him.

“Welcome home, lads,” Balin said. He seemed at ease, and glad to see them again.

Dáin clapped his hands together. “See, Kíli? The wisest of your company have heard the truth in my words. Balin will attest that my intentions are honorable, and my allegiance to the throne of Durin unwavering.”

“Lads,” Balin said, his thumbs hooked into his belt, “Listen to me carefully now. I think Fíli is in a very dangerous position now, very dangerous indeed.” He looked Kíli in the eye and continued. “You would do well to think long and hard before you answer this question.” There was an awkward pause before he asked, “Where is he?”

“Don’t tell him, Kíli!” Bofur exclaimed just as Dwalin shook his head. “Betrayal, from my own kin…”

“There is no betrayal here, gentlemen.” Dáin interrupted them. “Your friend Balin has a sincere interest in our king’s wellbeing, as do I.” He lay a hand on the elderly dwarf’s shoulder. They shared a conspiratory glance before he turned to Kíli again. His face showed none of its previous cordiality. “Now for the last time, where did you take Fíli?”

oOoOoOo

“I didn’t know there was a prison here,” Bofur said from his cell, his words echoing endlessly in the vast chasm beneath them. From his own alcove, Kíli could see him strewn out on his cot with his hat as a pillow. Somewhere above them, Dwalin was bashing against the bars of his cage, grumbling imprecations in Khuzdul.

“There are prisons everywhere,” Kíli complained bitterly. His own incarceration had started out more like Dwalin’s, but he’d given up long before his friend, mostly due to the suspicion that dwarven cells were no less safe than elven ones.

“We have to escape.” Bofur sat on his bed. “We promised Brea we’d…”

“Shhh!!” Kíli hissed, darting glances to the stone-hewn staircase that led towards the exit. “They may be listening.”

He was thinking specifically of Nárin, who’d taken a particular pleasure in shoving him into the cell. “A room fit for our guests,” he’d smirked. “My men will bring you food and drink… I hope they won’t forget.”

Kíli’d had no choice but to watch his retreating back, furious but utterly helpless. They’d been disarmed in the very first seconds of the fight, overcome by their opponents’ numbers. Before he could notch an arrow they’d been surrounded, Dáin’s men interposing themselves between Kíli and their king. He’d not even been able to put a shaft into the bastard’s eye before he went down.

In the cell above them, Dwalin had finally given up on breaking the door. Kíli heard the cot creak under his weight.

“You’re right, Bofur. We’ll escape.” He walked up to the iron bars and shook them, examined the lock. As expected, it was of ancient dwarven facture, and thus unbreakable. He swore. “If we don’t, Dáin will leave us here to rot.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you told him to lick a Balrog’s backside,” came a familiar voice from the top of the stairs.

Kíli flung himself against the door and pressed his face between the bars. “Balin!” Above them, Dwalin growled.

Balin descended towards Kíli, motioning them to keep quiet. “That was very brave, my lad.” He smiled. “And very foolish.”

“I wasn’t going to betray my brother!” Kíli hissed, retreating. “He would’ve done the same for me!”

Balin grimaced, unconvinced. “I love you, lad, never doubt that. But I hope your brother would’ve had the sense to lie and buy you all some time.”

“But you said..”

“I said to think carefully.” Balin shook his head. “…Not the brightest,” Kíli thought he’d heard him mutter before he produced a key from his pocket. “Now let’s get you out of here.”

“How did you get it?” Kíli marveled as he stepped out of the alcove.

“From Dáin himself, how else?” Balin walked up the stairs to release his brother. They embraced, all enmity forgotten in the light of Balin’s loyalty. “Here,” he said, thrusting the key at Kíli. “Go release Bofur. We have to talk.”

oOoOoOo

They were gathered by the light of the torches, all the eleven that remained of the company.

“It is a grim place to meet,” Dori groused, scuttling closer to his brothers.

All around them, the eyes of those who’d died trying to escape the mountain seemed to follow their every move.

“These folk have ears but no tongues,” Dwalin growled, defending his brother’s choice of place.

“Enough. We have little time, let’s not spend it squabbling.” Balin grunted as he seated himself onto one of the boulders that blocked the tunnel. He dusted off his hands and cast a circular glance at his companions. “I have managed to get Dáin’s trust,” he began.

“How?” Nori wondered. “He’s been keeping us all busy and under surveillance.”

Balin sighed. “I was the old king’s advisor. Thrór, may he rest in peace, trusted my counsel, and so did his son and grandson.” He wiped the corners of his eyes. “It appears that my willingness to advise Ironfoot is perceived as an unspoken support of his claim to the throne, and a sign that he is more fit to rule than Fíli.”

The dwarves jumped to their feet, fists pumping the air in outrage. “Quiet!” Balin hissed, looking at Kíli for support.

“Silence!” Kíli bellowed.

His voice reverberated in the chamber, as if the dead themselves were echoing his call. Grumbling but complying, the company sat back down. Glóin fingered his axe, eyeing the corpses with unease.

“A sign, I was saying. Dáin’s interpretation doesn’t concern me, what matters is that he trusts me, at least for now. And we must use that to our advantage.” He stretched out his arm, inviting Kíli to stand up.

“My brother is dying,” Kíli began. He saw the faces around him fall in sadness, and rejoiced in the knowledge that the eldest line of Durin still held their support. “He is fighting for his life with all the strength he has left. We’ve found a way to stay death, but it will be in vain if he doesn’t receive proper help soon.” He paused. “There is a way to secure it, and it lies within this mountain.”

He had their attention now. The companions were looking at him expectantly, their eyes filled with hope. All he had to do is deliver the rest in a convincing manner, without tainting it with his own prejudice, else his brother was doomed.

“The white gems of Lasgalen, prized property of king Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, are somewhere inside this mountain. The Elvenking is keen on having them returned into his hands.” Mutters rose amongst the dwarves and he had to raise his voice as he continued: “He made us the same offer he’d made to Thorin. I would take it up, in exchange for the skill and magic of the elven healers.”

“How do we know we can trust him?” Glóin objected. “What if he takes the gems and kills us?”

“We have to take that risk.” Kíli exchanged a glance with Bofur, who’d been the first to suggest such a possibility back in Dale.

Nori cleared his throat. “Have you seen the size of Smaug’s treasure? How are we supposed to find the gems inside those heaps of gold?”

Kíli realized he hadn’t considered that part of the plan. Discouragement weaseled its way into his mind, corrupting it with thoughts of failure. “My friends!” He exclaimed, ignoring Ori who was wriggling on his rock, his hand raised high. “You have followed Thorin through every possible danger, and he led us here. He led us home, and fought for the survival of our people. Our king, our friend – my uncle – is dead, slain by Azog the Defiler.”

He stopped to catch his breath and his eyes met Balin’s. The elderly dwarf was dabbing at the corners of his eyes with a worn handkerchief.

“I miss him,” Kíli said in a broken voice. “I miss my uncle. He helped my mother raise us both, Fíli and I. He’s seen us take our first steps, he taught us to fight. Throughout his life he protected us and strived to provide a better future for his kin.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t want to miss by brother too. Will you help me now? Will you follow me into the dragon’s lair, and help me upturn every coin until we find those gems?”

A roar of approval was his reward. Again the company was on its feet, but this time it was cries of determination that filled the room. Only Ori remained seated, his hand extended towards the ceiling.

Kíli narrowed his eyes. “What?” he snapped in irritation. “What is it, Ori?”

The dwarf rose timidly to his feet. “I know where they are,” he said. “The white gems of Lasgalen. I know where they’re hidden.”


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_“Every treasure is guarded by dragons. That's how you can tell it's valuable.”  
Saul Bellow _

oOoOoOo

_October 13 th, T.A. 2941_

Ori was unused to such attention. He squirmed under Kíli’s and Balin’s combined gaze, stuttering as they tried to pry the information out of him.

“Let me speak!”

Balin’s exasperated cry interrupted Kíli’s string of questions. He scowled but stepped back, arms folded on his chest, acknowledging his elder’s experience and wisdom. The older dwarf took Ori by his shoulders and sat him down on a boulder, motioning to the others to step back and give them both some space.

“Now, lad. The gems. Where are they?”

Ori glanced at Dori, who nodded in encouragement. “They are in the king’s office,” he said quietly.

“How do you know that?” Kíli couldn’t help but ask. He ignored the warning look Balin gave him.

“I read it in the ledger,” Ori replied. “The master jeweler’s ledger, to be precise.” He elaborated: “I’ve been tasked to clean up the library. There are many books there, but they’re in a sorry state. I wish I had some of my equipment so I could restore them.”

Balin shook him by the shoulders. “The gems, lad. Focus now.”

“The jeweler’s ledger mentions their receipt and examination,” Ori continued. “They were brought to be repaired by request of the Elvenking, to be safeguarded in the king’s office during their stay in Erebor.”

“That’s going to be a wee problem.” Balin scratched his beard.

“Why?” Kíli sprung forward. “We wait until everyone’s asleep, we get into that office and we take the gems!” He grinned. “What’s hard about that?”

“What’s hard,” Balin answered, “Is that the king’s office is the safest place in the mountain. Only two people have the key to its door.” He glanced at Kíli. “That would be Dáin and his right hand.”

“That bastard Nárin.” Kíli balled his hands into fists. “I’ll take care of him myself.”

“That is your right, but I’ll advise you to remain cautious.” Balin muttered. “Now, it is best you returned to your cells before your disappearance is discovered.”

“What?” Dwalin balked, “I won’t be waiting while others do all the work!”

“And it’s not what I’m asking.” Balin rolled his eyes. “Dáin will send men to see that you, uh, don’t pose a problem in the future. Take their weapons and find Nárin. Ori will provide you with a map.” He lay a hand on Kíli’s shoulder. “For the love of Durin, lad, remember that it is not vengeance you seek here. When in doubt, do what Thorin would’ve done.” With those words he strode off into the darkness of the mountain.

“And what’s that?” Kíli called out to his retreating back.

The answer came echoing down the corridor: “Use your head.”

oOoOoOo

“Come on, they’re sleeping.”

The whisper drifted down the stairs, accompanied by the jingling of keys. As the footsteps drew closer Kíli willed himself to lie still. His pulse quickened, as it always did before a battle, even if this time the odds were not in his favor. He was unarmed, or as good as – the smallish knife Nori had provided would pose little threat to the guards’ armor.

“Why’s it so dark in here?” someone complained in a low voice.

Kíli smiled to himself. He’d snuffed out the torches beside the cells, and his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness.

“Leave it,” another one spoke. “It may play out in our favor.”

Kíli counted three sets of feet. He shut his eyes, focusing on his hearing, and pretended to be asleep.

“Nárin said to start with this one,” one of the men murmured.

The click of a key inserted into its hole and the squeal of the door opening told Kíli how close they were, but he waited for the footsteps to enter his cell. The plan they’d elaborated together with Bofur and Dwalin relied on the assumption that none of the henchmen would escape.

“You do it,” the first voice said suddenly.

“Why me?” the second complained. “I still believe it’s dishonorable to kill someone in their sleep, prince or no.”

Kíli struggled to remain immobile and focused on his breath, keeping it as even as possible.

“Shut it, both of you. I’ll go.” The third man walked into the cell, his heavy steps betraying his size.

Kíli’s eyes shot open. In a glimpse he took in the scene: the massive, ironclad figure beside his cot, the arm raised over his head and the sword intended for his own heart. He gripped the sides of the bed and kicked his attacker with both legs. The man reeled backwards, colliding with one of the other two. They crashed to the floor in a clanging ruckus that signaled the beginning of the fight. Above him, Dwalin’s cell door banged open.

Kíli sprang to his feet and pulled out Nori’s knife. “Don’t let them escape!” he yelled out and lunged to avoid a slashing blow to the head. The blade scraped against the stone wall of the cell. Kíli ducked beneath the man’s arm and came face to face with his second opponent. The guard pulled out his sword, blocking the exit. Behind Kíli, the first man was turning on his heels to strike again.

A warcry echoed within the prison. A shadow landed on the henchman who’d remained outside, knocking his weapon out of his hand. The blade skidded towards the chasm and toppled over the edge. Kíli’s obstacle to freedom was removed as Dwalin reached out from behind and yanked the man outside. Grabbing him by the gorget he slammed the man’s face into the wall.

Kíli spun around in time to avoid another wrath blow. His own knife was useless against the heavy plate, and he watched for an opening in the armor he could use. When his attacker raised his arm once again, he saw his chance and took it. The knife entered the flesh beneath the arm, where the plackart met the vambrace. The guard’s grip on his weapon vanished. In a cry of agony he clattered to the floor together with his sword.

“Now that’s a job nicely done.” Bofur shuffled into the cell, dragging one of the men by the leg. The edges of the armor grated on the stone floor.

“Stop talking and get their keys,” Dwalin growled as he shoved the last of the henchmen into the cell.

They locked the door behind them and Bofur hooked the keyring to his belt. Kíli examined the weapons they’d claimed: two swords and Nori’s knife, a poor arsenal to storm a mountain. “Let’s go,” he commanded.

They crept along the corridors and over the bridges, avoiding patrols and stray footmen. Where Kíli once marveled at the vastness of the halls, he now saw occasions to be seen and stopped. However, Dáin’s confidence in the success of the assassination attempt was such that he hadn’t bothered to increase the rounds. The thee of them reached the living quarters with no additional skirmishes, but the hardest part was still to come. Ori’s map had led them to the doors of Thorin’s former rooms, which Nárin had claimed for his own use. Kíli had seethed when he realized the affront made to his uncle.

He peeked from behind a pillar to count the sentinels standing guard by the doors. “Two,” he gestured to his companions. Dwalin and Bofur nodded. They exchanged a glance, agreeing on a strategy, and slinked off into the darkness. Kíli remained behind, clutching his knife. He peered again to see both guards with swords at their their throats. They froze, not daring to move, as Dwalin’s angry gaze could be very dissuasive.

“Disarm them,” Kíli muttered, “And then gag them.”

Once the sentries had been dealt with, they were writhing on the floor with their smallclothes in their mouths, their trousers at their ankles. Bofur had bound their wrists and feet with their own belts to ensure that no alarm would be raised until their mission was done.

Kíli looked at the doors before them and then to his friends. His grip on the sword he’d requisitioned from one of the guards tightened. The time to face Nárin had come at last. He lay his hand on the intricate golden panels, where the royal seal of Durin was engraved together with Thorin’s personal sigil, and pushed.

The door swung open into darkness.

Kíli and Bofur slid into the room, pulling the doors closed behind them and leaving Dwalin to stand watch. Kíli’s eyes soon grew accustomed to the dark again, and his ears were able to pick up the rhythm of a soft breath coming from the bed. The velvet curtains of the canopy hid the sleeper from his view, but the absence of movement comforted him in the certainty that Nárin hadn’t been woken.

He nodded at Bofur and circled the bed, reaching out to pull the curtains away, when he felt a blade scratching at his throat.

“What do we have here?” Nárin smirked, showing a golden tooth. He was laying in the bed, unarmed and unarmored, save for the sword that prolonged his extended arm. A chain glittered around his neck, half-hidden by his tunic.

From the corner of his eye Kíli saw Bofur freeze on the other side of the bed, the silhouette of his hat barely visible in the light that filtered from outside.

“His royal Highness, Prince Kíli.” Nárin pushed himself up. He twisted the sword so that the blade bit into the skin of Kíli’s neck.

Kíli felt a burn, and the trickle of blood, but he refused to give Nárin the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

“I see that my men have proven ineffective. Are they dead?”

“Your men?” Kíli breathed out. “I thought they were the king’s men.”

“They are, but the orders were mine. Dáin is proud but too noble for his own good.” Nárin shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” He nodded towards Bofur. “Tell your friend here to show himself, or I will slit your throat from one ear to another.”

“I’m here,” Bofur whispered into his ear, sliding his own sword under Nárin’s chin. The hat hadn’t moved but the dwarf did. He grabbed Nárin’s braided beard and yanked his head back. “If you so much as twitch, I’ll give you a nice clean shave.”

Kíli stepped back hastily and rubbed his own throat.

“Drop your weapon,” Bofur commanded, tugging at Nárin’s beard.

The man relented, his eyes narrowed in fury. His sword fell to the floor, the sound absorbed by the thick carpets of the room, and Kíli kicked it under the bed. “Gag him,” he told Bofur.

They bound him to the pillars of the canopy using his own sheets. Nárin didn’t squirm; he only glared at them from beneath his bushy eyebrows. The same pride that had forced Kíli to endure the cut without a word flowed in his veins. He was joined by his two guards, whom Dwalin dragged into Thorin’s former closet.

“We should kill him,” the burly dwarf suggested, but Kíli shook his head. He remembered Balin’s words of warning.

“Leave them,” he instructed before turning to Nárin.

A small, delicate key dangled from the chain as Kíli tore it from his neck, leaving red marks on his skin. “I hope someone won’t forget to bring you food and drink in the morning,” He said, “Or you’ll starve in this room, you and your minions.”

oOoOoOo

“We should’ve slain that bastard,” Dwalin insisted when Bofur disclosed what had happened earlier. “He tried to kill us!” He looked at Kíli. “I can do that real quick for you, if you want.”

Kíli waved him into silence. They’d reached the entrance to the chambers that had been Thrór’s office during his time as King under the Mountain. Fortunately for them, the doors weren’t guarded, as Dáin relied on the complexity and sturdiness of the lock as well as the safety of the keys that opened it.

The doors’ beauty surpassed everything they’d seen before. Carved out of black marble veined with white, rimmed with gold, they glittered in the light of the torches. Kíli inserted the small key into the hole and turned. A series of clicks followed, indicating that a complex mechanism was at work within the stone. The last latch snapped into place and the doors opened, swinging inward without resistance.

The chambers were lit with the light of dwarven lamps, which required no fuel and could burn for hours. Marble cabinets lined the walls, and an impressive desk, intricately engraved and painted, occupied the center of the room. Every inch of its surface was covered on old parchments and books.

“Find the gems,” Kíli commanded as he headed towards the desk.

He pushed the papers around, feeling dust cover his fingertips. Documents bearing Thrór’s seal crumbled under his touch, and some more recent scrolls tumbled to the ground. One of them in particular caught his eye, a missive bearing the royal sigil of the Iron Hills. Kíli picked it up. His eyes widened when he unrolled it.

“I think I’ve found them.” Bofur announced. He held up his finding to the closest lamp.

A pure, white light illuminated the chambers, radiating from the cascade of gems that hung from his hand. Like stars caught from a clear night sky and imprisoned in a silvery web, they tingled softly with every movement.

Dwalin touched Kíli ‘s arm. “Let’s go.”

Kíli nodded, pocketing the scroll. They hurried towards the gates, ready to fight their way out of Erebor. Kíli would’ve fancied a tour to the armory to fetch their weapons, but it lay dangerously close to the quarters of the guard, which implied the presence of armed men nearby. It was a risk he was unwilling to take.

The heavy steps of a patrol halted their run, and they hid behind a corner waiting for the guards to pass.

“Dáin will give chase as soon as he finds out,” Dwalin panted, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Kíli remembered the missive, and what it meant. “No he won’t,” he said.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“ _We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.”  
Marcel Proust _

oOoOoOo

_October 13 th, T.A. 2941_

Light footsteps heading up the stairs roused him from his slumber. Fíli opened his eyes, wondering what time it was. The sole window of the room allowed a view of the sky, and, considering the intensity of the sunlight and its direction, he guessed the day to be half gone.

He watched the door, expecting to see Brea, but it was an unknown woman who entered, carrying a bowl and a goblet. She was tall and thin, with hair as red as Glóin’s but none of his beard. She startled to see him awake.

“I brought you something to eat.”

Fíli saw her hesitate before coming closer. She set the bowl and goblet beside his bed, avoiding to look at him. He guessed she was the one who lived downstairs, the mother of the infant and the owner of the house.

“Thank you,” he said.

His voice was raspy from unuse, and his lips were parched. Fíli reached out for the cup first, gritting his teeth at the pain the movement stirred in his side. The woman watched him struggle, her own conflict written on her face. She seemed afraid to stay with him, but loath to leave before she knew he’d eaten. Fíli suspected that Brea had left her instructions, but he wasn’t about to beg for help.

His fingers closed around the goblet. A stabbing pain erupted in the muscles of his back and his arm quivered.

“Let me…”

The woman approached hastily to help him raise the cup to his lips. Fíli wondered whether it was compassion that had driven her to act, or the reluctance of having to fetch another drink. She retreated as he swallowed the water in greedy gulps, uncaring for the spill that ran down his beard. He must look primitive to her anyway, he mused. Good manners would not change her opinion.

He wondered where Brea was. No doubt that she had a family to take care of, perhaps even a man who demanded her time and attention. The thought made him bitter all of a sudden; bitter and jealous.

Fíli struggled to put the cup back onto the stool that served as a bedside before reaching for the bowl, but the woman was quicker. She set the dish onto his chest so that he could use the spoon to feed himself. Steadying the bowl with one hand, Fíli tasted the contents. Simple stew with bits of bread drowned within, a far cry from the victory feast they’d been speaking of but a fortnight ago.

“Do you know where my brother is?” he asked as the woman was about to leave.

Balin would have chewed him out for talking with his mouth full, but Balin wasn’t there, and neither was Kíli or Thorin. The bitter taste in his mouth returned, and Fíli set down the spoon. He had to face the truth sooner or later: he’d been left behind, broken and useless.

“I don’t.” The woman halted before the door. “Brea didn’t say much about you or your… friends.”

Friends don’t leave people amongst strangers, Fíli wanted to say, but didn’t. “Then where is she?” he asked instead.

The woman shrugged. “At work, I suppose.” He watched her in silence, unblinking, and she felt compelled to continue. “She works as a healer during the day, in the city hall. She should be back in the evening to check on you.”

“Is she married?” The words escaped his lips before he’d thought them out, but the look on her face was worth the blunder.

“Not anymore,” the woman mumbled. She disappeared into the staircase, leaving Fíli alone with his thoughts.

He swallowed another mouthful of stew, finding that somehow, its taste had improved over the course of the conversation. He was hungry after all.

oOoOoOo

Her hands fluttered about, ever busy, never resting. As far as Fíli could tell, Brea never remained still, always doing one thing or another, be it taking care of him or anything else.

She hadn’t struck him as overactive when they’d first met: he remembered a decisive, composed woman who knew what she wanted and what she did not. Her nerves had shown otherwise, and Fíli recalled how it had bothered him to watch her mutilate herself in silence.

The only conclusion that he could draw was that he was the one who made her nervous, but he couldn’t fathom why. She’d seen him almost naked, dressed his wounds, and worse… They’d reached a level of intimacy unmatched in many married couples, yet she seemed to be restless every time she was near him.

Fíli wondered whether it was repulsion that made her jittery, or the opposite. He wished for the latter. Not that he’d felt very attractive of late, but you never knew with humans. Fíli himself had never experienced anything beyond respect for any woman of any race; he’d kept busy, training for battle or the throne, studying the strategies of past wars and the history of kings of old. One day he’d ascend to the throne, and be required to marry and produce an heir. He’d never stopped to consider what the producing part really entitled.

From his position in the bed, there was little he could do but observe, so observe he did. He studied his caretaker carefully, noting the little details he liked most. From his experience, Brea was small for a human, but she was still taller than him by a head. Her skin was darker than the other people of Laketown he’d met, maybe a heritage from a Southern ancestor. Black hair and a curvy, strong figure, with muscular arms speaking of a trade that required physical labor. Like all human women she lacked a proper beard, but he’d seen a few darker hairs above her upper lip. Fíli wondered if they were as soft as her locks were bound to be, or coarse like his own beard.

If she caught him staring at her when she turned around, Brea gave no sign of it. She approached the bed, looking preoccupied, her hands full with cloths and bowls. She set everything onto the bedside and glanced at him, her eyebrows drawn together in worry.

“I must set your leg straight,” she said, biting her nails again. Fíli felt the urge to reach out and stop her from mangling her skin in such a manner. “It’s going to hurt, but it’s necessary.” She peered into his eyes. “I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”

Fíli nodded. Discomfort had been a faithful companion ever since his fall. His breath was ragged even at rest, leaving him winded after only a few words. His whole body ached, the intensity of the soreness rising and falling in waves, sometimes rousing him from sleep. Whenever that happened he’d grip the edges of the bed and grit his teeth, waiting for the moment to pass. Kings didn’t complain, Thorin had taught him that much.

Brea seemed to search his face for a sign that could’ve dissuaded her to proceed, but he liked to think he remained impassible. She sighed and pulled the sheets away from his leg. Fíli craned his neck to examine it even though he’d done it before, when no-one was watching. He had wiggled his toes and prodded the bruised skin with his hand, moaning in pain, his suffering covered by the wails of the baby below. He’d even tried to rise, but as soon as he’d contracted the muscles of his thigh he’d screamed, falling back onto the mattress.

No matter how he’d wanted to believe that he’d heal on his own, Fíli had been forced to admit that he needed help. Brea wouldn’t treat his leg properly if she was afraid to hurt him, so he was determined to bear the pain without a sound. He wouldn’t be known as the first crippled king of Erebor, and if such was the price to pay, he’d pay it gladly.

Brea came back with wooden splints and rope, and lay them on each side of his naked leg. “I’ll be careful, I promise,” she said, as much for herself as for him. She bit her lip as she soaked the bandages in the bowl, before wrapping them around his leg. Fíli shivered, causing her to look up. “Sorry,” she muttered, pushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

Those were lovely eyes, Fíli observed to himself, black as night, with specks of gold that could be seen when you looked close enough. Her long lashes fluttered as she worked, and Fíli chose to focus on their movement.

He was soon distracted from his pleasant pastime. The bandages tightened around his leg as they dried. What started out as a uncomfortable stiffness grew into a pull, and then into a pain that burned from thigh to toe. Fíli clenched his teeth, refusing to show his suffering. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and soaked the pillow.

Brea must’ve noticed his plight. Her voice was hesitant when she asked: “Would you tell me about your home?” He glanced at her in bewilderment, but she insisted, laying yet another strip of cloth onto his knee. “What’s it like?”

Fíli knew that his place was beneath the mountain, in Erebor, yet whenever someone mentioned home, he remembered his life in the Blue Mountains instead. Just as he decided he wouldn’t need such a childish way to escape the pain, Brea wiped her hands and reached for the splints.

He swallowed hard. “I grew up in the Blue Mountains,” he said hoarsely, eyeing her movements.

Brea seemed curious. “Where is that?”

“In the West of Eriador, above the gulf of Lune.”

Fíli remembered the last look he’d taken at the snowy peaks of his homeland, when he and Kíli had left for the Shire. How the wind had howled in the blue pines that grew on the slopes, rich with the scent of resin and smoke. Amongst the pines thrived blackberry bushes, whose fruit he and Kíli used to gorge on as children, until their mouths were blue as well.

“I was born in Gabilgathol. Your people call it Belegost.” Fíli closed his eyes and leaned back. He had to catch his breath before he could continue. “There are forests there, older than most human cities of Middle-Earth,” he said, “As dark and deep as the realms my forefathers built in those mountains.” She was wrapping his leg in something warm. “The city itself is built of marble,” Fíli continued as she pushed the splints against his thigh. “The black and white veins of stone adorn the city walls and vaults, as if the halls were built from Mahal’s flesh itself.”

He wheezed, exhausted by his long tirade. The pressure on his leg increased, and so did the pain. It was as though his bones were breaking all over again, but this time slowly, grinding together under his skin. Through his own panting Fíli heard Brea’s breath accelerate as she worked. He clenched his teeth, willing himself to focus on the memories.

“I remember the patterns on the walls of our mother’s home…”

Sweat poured down his face and his blood pounded in his ears. Fíli could barely hear himself speak, but fought to continue. He’d reached it - in his mind, he was back home again. He could see the house he was born in, and walk though his city and its pillared halls. He wandered to the marketplace, where their mother used to send them for errands, and the wide terrace that overlooked the forest. From atop the city watchtowers he was able to glimpse the sea, when the winds swept in from the north, announcing the arrival of the first snowfalls.

The memories were strong and pure, but the pain was stronger, engulfing him once again. Fíli held it in as long as he could, and when he could take it no more he arched his back and screamed.

The mattress sank in when Brea sat beside him. He felt a soft hand on the back of his neck and a cold touch on his lips. “Drink,” she urged, her voice breaking. He opened his eyes to see her tear-streaked face. “It’ll ease the aching.”

He swallowed the bitter liquid readily and closed his eyes again.

“Sleep,” Brea whispered above him.

As he drifted off, carried away on the wings of a pine-scented wind, he thought he felt the touch of her lips on his forehead.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

_“The things you do for yourself are gone when you are gone, but the things you do for others remain as your legacy._

_Kalu Ndukwe Kalu_

oOoOoOo

_October 14 th, T.A. 2941_

Kíli hadn’t been so sure of himself when he’d said that Dáin wouldn’t pursue them beyond the gates of Erebor, yet the morning had proven him right. No trumpets had broken the silence to sound the alarm at the discovery of Nárin and his men. No battle rams left the mountain, their hooves shaking the earth. Kíli’s thoughts went to Balin and the other companions, hoping that Dáin would prove merciful, as Kíli had been when he chose to spare the king’s men.

They trudged across the plain, the rising sun lighting their way. Slowly the valley awakened around them. The yellowing grass glittered with frost, and a rabbit dashed out of his hole. Kíli’s stomach grumbled and he regretted the loss of his bow.

The elven camp lay ahead, Thranduil’s green and silver banners visible from afar. Dwalin scowled when he spotted the sentries posted at the entrance. As they approached, Kíli understood that the feeling was mutual. The elves lowered their halberds in a swift movement.

“State your business,” one of them commanded.

“I’m here to see your king,” Kíli shot back.

The elf sniggered. “Does he want to see you?” he said, winking at the other guard.

Dwalin growled to Kíli’s right, a hand on his sword. The sentries stepped back at once, their blades pointed at the small group. “Come no further!” they ordered, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Kíli understood that should nothing be done to diffuse the situation, they would end up in an elven dungeon once again, and he could not risk such a delay. Their escape from Erebor the night before had marked the fourth day since Fíli’s fall, and each additional hour saw his brother decline.

“I am Kíli son of Grundin, brother to Fíli, King under the Mountain,” he announced, his arms raised. “We have come in peace to honor a treaty that was made on our behalf between the king of Dale and yours.” To emphasize his good intentions he made a show of unbuckling his scabbard, and motioned for the others to do the same.

The elves stood down with obvious reluctance. “I will inform our Majesty of your presence,” one of them agreed, “Though I doubt he will have time to receive you.”

Kíli felt his anger rise at being treated with such condescendence. “Tell your Majesty,” he spat out, “That if he wants his precious gems, he’ll find the time.” Reaching inside his coat he pulled out the necklace for the elves to see.

The gems shimmered in the morning sun, white as snow and as cold as the Elvenking’s heart. The sentries exchanged a glance.

“Follow me,” one of them said. “King Thranduil will receive you now.” He extended an arm to invite Kíli into the camp.

“Stay here,” Kíli told his friends before either could protest. “If I’m not back within an hour, ride back to Dale and tell my brother I tried.” He turned on his heels to follow the elf.

Though he was, in fact, in hostile territory, Kíli felt strangely at peace as he walked through the encampment. Whether it was the hope of saving his brother or the strong chance of his own impending death, he couldn’t tell. All around him, the shimmering fabrics of the elven tents moved in the autumn wind, flapping like the sails of a ship. Silver, blue and green, they were the colors of the sea beyond the mountains, in the West. His and Fíli’s homeland, if not their home.

They soon arrived in front of the tallest tent of all, where more elves stood guard, armed to the teeth. Their guide exchanged words with the sentries in their own language. Kíli could see astonishment in their eyes as they let him pass.

Inside the pavilion, the Elvenking sat upon his throne, a cup of wine in his hand.

“I hear you have something for me, Kíli son of Grundin,” he uttered, sipping on his drink.

“I do.” Kíli produced the gems again. He let the king examine them from afar before pocketing them once more. “An offer was made,” he reminded Thranduil, “An offer my uncle refused…”

“Most rudely,” the Elvenking interrupted.

“…And that I mean to accept. The white gems of Lasgalen in exchange for your help.”

Thranduil cocked his head to the side. “These gems belong to me. They were stolen from me by the dragon your forefather has allowed into Erebor.” He leaned forward. “You would have me bargain for something that is rightfully mine?”

Kíli crossed his arms on his chest. “You have made an offer.”

“Not to you!” The Elvenking rose from his seat, drawing himself up to his full height. He motioned for his servants to approach.

Panic rose in his chest. His hand flew to where his sword should’ve been, but his scabbard lay in the grass at the entrance of the camp. He thought of Fíli, remembering his brother’s face one last time.

The Elvenking continued. “And yet the white gems are dear to me, more precious than the life of a dwarf.” He took the goblet his servant proffered. “The offer was made, it cannot be rescinded,” he declared in a sour voice and sank back into his throne. “I will honor the agreement, Kíli son of Grundin. My healers are at your disposal.”

oOoOoOo

“By Ilúvatar, for the last time, I am not a woman!”

Cendir’s exasperated voice carried towards the end of the column. He turned to his companions for support, but Gaeldor merely shrugged while Lhaewen seemed indifferent to his predicament.

“But you have no beard!” Dwalin pointed out.

“And neither does Gaeldor, yet I don’t hear you snickering about his appearance.”

Bofur tilted his head to the side. “I don’t know why that is. He just looks more… manly.” He glanced over at Kíli and winked.

Cendir rolled his eyes and spurred his horse forward, distancing the dwarves and his elven comrades. Kíli had to pull on the reins to stop his own mount from following. Perched as he was atop his horse, squishing the most delicate parts of his person against the saddle with every step, he had no wish to gallop. The distance to the ground seemed unending and should he fall, it would be both painful and humiliating. Kíli’s only consolation was that Dwalin and Bofur were bound to suffer the same plight until they reached Dale.

“Tell me of your brother’s wounds.”

Lhaewen had slowed down to ride beside him, leaving Gaeldor alone between Dwalin and Bofur. To Kíli’s eyes she looked much like the other two elves, save for the fact that she was female and that her hair was brown instead of blond. Little else distinguished the elves one from another. From their healers’ clothes to the way they braided their hair, there was a uniformity in their appearance that Kíli found unsettling. Dwarves used their hair to show their identity and origin, and the more original the better.

“He has some broken bones,” he began, reluctant to recall the appearance of Fíli’s body. With some luck, it would soon be nothing more than a bad memory.

“How was he injured?” Lhaewen pressed. She was watching him with her clear, unblinking eyes, a gaze almost as unsettling as the Elvenking’s.

“He fell.” Kíli told her before correcting himself: “He was impaled and thrown off a tower. According to Brea he has a punctured lung as well.”

“Who is Brea?” she inquired. “Is she one of your healers?”

“Brea is… She’s taking care of Fíli.” Kíli found it difficult to explain the relationship that tied her to his brother, as there was more beneath the surface than the eye could see.

“We have a welcome party,” Gaeldor commented, nodding towards their destination.

Kíli squinted towards the promontory where Dale stood. The cold wind stung his eyes, making them water. “I can’t see anything,” he complained, “Do you know who it is?”

In the light of their most recent official visit to the inhabitants of Laketown, he could imagine that the arrival of a dwarven party to the gates of Dale would be welcomed with pitchforks rather than flowers. That was why they had chosen to smuggle Fíli into the city rather than ask openly for aid. Kíli hoped that the elves’ presence would mollify the townsfolk enough to let him explain.

“I count fourteen armed men whom I do not recognize,” Gaeldor began, and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “And their leader, tall and dark-haired. His name is Bard.”

The knowledge that Bard would be present when they approached Dale reassured Kíli, despite the grudge that the former bargeman was well within his rights to hold against them. He was a reasonable and kind-hearted man, no doubt he would allow the elves to pass and help his brother if his city benefited from it as well.

As they neared the gates, Kíli saw that Gaeldor had indeed been right. He counted seven men to Bard’s left and as many to his right, blocking the avenue that led into town. Bard himself seemed to recognize the incomers, for he commanded his men to stand down.

Lhaewen spurred her horse and galloped ahead. “Your Majesty king Bard,” she called out, “We are sent by our king Thranduil to honor an agreement that has been struck between elves, dwarves and men, upon your request. Do you acknowledge that agreement?”

“I do,” Bard replied warily, “Although I have no knowledge that any part of it was completed, and whether the agreement still holds.”

“The part that fell upon the mortal races is done,” Lhaewen declared. “The time has come for our people to honor our word.” She gestured to her comrades. “I am Lhaewen, chief healer of the Woodland Realm. I have come with my companions Gaeldor and Cendir on the orders of king Thranduil, to offer assistance in your time of need.”

Kíli could tell that Bard was surprised, though the king of Dale showed little of it. “You are welcome to Dale, all of you.” His eyes narrowed when he spotted the dwarves.

“Prince Kíli,” he said, bowing his head as they rode by. “I suppose it is you that we should be thanking for this miracle. I don’t know how you managed it, but we are grateful all the same.”

“We dwarves are stubborn,” Kíli responded, “But we treasure honor above all. Whatever we break, we strive to repair.”

Bard smiled. “Then all is well between us. I can now welcome you to Dale,” he added, “Though I suspect it’s not your first visit.”

“Then you’ll understand we must hurry.”

Kíli urged his steed forward to join Lhaewen. The horse launched into a brisk trot to catch up with the rest of the group, and only his tight grip on the pommel saved Kíli from the much dreaded fall.

Lhaewen was waiting for him beyond the city gates. She’d already dispatched her companions to accompany Bard’s men towards the healing halls; Gaeldor and Cendir were riding up the avenue, indifferent to the awe of the inhabitants of Dale.

“Take me to your brother,” she said. “If what you’ve told me is true, there is no time to waste.”


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

_“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”  
Shel Silverstein_

oOoOoOo

_October 14 th, T.A. 2941_

“How are you feeling?” Brea inquired as she unwrapped the bandages, careful not to touch the scar tissue that had begun to form beneath.

The young carpenter shrugged, his face sullen. Brea had learned that he’d only consented to the removal of his foot after Bard’s visit to the halls. The new king of Dale had come to check on the health of those who’d been wounded during the latest attack, and to see whether anything could be done to improve their state. He’d consulted the healers about the availability of beds and supplies, and promised to help in any way he could.

“The wound is healing well,” she commented, trying to sound optimistic. Both the man’s children, a boy and a girl, had come to visit their father in the halls of healing, accompanied by one of the women who took care of the orphans of Laketown. Ever since they’d arrived, he had barely acknowledged their presence, to the evident distress of the children. For their sake, Brea attempted to lighten the mood. “Your father’s out of danger,” she quipped, “He’ll be back home in no time.”

The man looked away dejectedly. “Out of danger,” he muttered, “And out of a job as well. What’ll I do now?” He crossed his arms and looked away. “A footless carpenter, what a joke. We’ll die of hunger before the winter’s done.”

His children watched him with apprehension, huddled together. The girl’s lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears. “We’re going to die?” she whimpered in a small voice, clutching the remains of a stuffed toy.

“Hush dear, of course you’re not.” Brea kneeled in front of the children. “Your father’s lost a foot during the battle. He’s a hero now, and heroes don’t die of hunger.” She couldn’t help but shoot the father a dirty look. “At least, not under Bard’s rule.”

She reached out to smooth the child’s curls. “Have you heard the story of Maedhros? He was one of the greatest elven warriors of old. He lost a hand as he fought a great evil, just like your father did.” She hoisted the girl up and sat her on the bed. “He became an even greater warrior after that, and your father will be an even greater craftsman.”

Brea smiled at the boy, who reached out timidly to touch his father’s hand. “You still have your hands, Da.” He hesitated. “I can help you fetch what you need if you can’t walk.”

“You can have Booboo,” The girl handed the man her toy. “He can help you get better.”

The man sniffed and pulled her into his arms. “My children,” he croaked into his daughter’s shoulder. His son clambered onto the bed and joined the embrace, weeping as well.

Brea stepped aside, mindful not to intrude further upon the family reunion. The healing process would be long and painful, even after the wounds of the body were healed. She was one of the few who hadn’t lost a limb or a loved one to the war, and felt ashamed of such an insolent luck.

She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around, looking for another way to get useful after her last patient of the morning. It was then that she noticed the animation that grew by the entrance of the hall, spreading to every man and woman inside.

“The elves,” people whispered excitedly, “The elves have arrived!”

Brea’s heart skipped a beat. She headed towards the doors, but the crowd that had gathered there prevented her from seeing. She turned to Daria, who stood higher than her by a head. “What’s going on?” she inquired, craning her neck.

“Elven healers,” Daria replied, nodding her head in approval. “The elves have sent us help.”

That could only mean one thing, Brea realized. Kíli had succeeded in retrieving the gems, and Thranduil had honored his part of the pact. Her pulse quickened. She’d made it; Fíli was saved.

“I have to go,” she mumbled, pushing past Daria and through the crowd until she reached the exit, indifferent to the protests that rose around her.

Two blond elves stood in the middle of the circle of people. “Gaeldor,” one of them said, his hand on his heart. He bowed his head when he said his name. “This is Cendir.” The second elf was carrying a bag that was likely to contain herbs and supplies. “Our leader Lhaewen will join us once her own mission here is done.”

Brea suspected what Lhaewen’s mission could be. “Fíli…” she breathed out. Gathering her skirts, she took off towards Agnessa’s house. She ran against the stream of people heading towards the hall to get a glimpse of the elves. Once or twice she collided with someone but didn’t stop despite their exclamations of annoyance.

Carried away by her momentum, Brea slammed the door open, waking Maethor and earning a dark look from Agnessa. She climbed the steps two by two, arriving breathless and sweating at the top of the stairs.

“You must be Brea,” a melodious voice welcomed her. The elven healer was standing beside the bed, flanked by Bofur and Dwalin. Fíli himself was watching the elf warily, Kíli at his side.

“You made it!” Brea panted, beaming at Kíli.

He smiled back, a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We made it,” he corrected her. “If not for you, none of us would be here today.”

oOoOoOo

Lhaewen’s long, thin fingers pried the knots undone, uncoiling the rope that held the splints together. Brea watched anxiously as Fíli gritted his teeth with every touch on his leg. She itched to intervene, to snap at the elf to be more gentle, but her respect for the elder race held her back. No matter how infuriating her conversation with the Elvenking had been, she trusted that Thranduil wouldn’t have sent someone to torture Fíli in retaliation.

The healer removed the splints and lay them aside. She unwrapped the felt with slow movements before reaching into her belt to produce a thin, curved blade. The dwarves tensed at once, their hands on their weapons, and Fíli clenched his teeth in anticipation of the pain. Brea herself had barely time to move as Lhaewen slid the blade between the skin and the bandages, cutting the latter open in one swift movement.

“If you want me to save him, you must trust me,” she spoke, looking at each one of them in turn. “I am a healer of the Woodland Realm. I have sworn an oath to never harm any living being that needs my assistance.”

Once the dried bandages had been removed, she ran a hand along his thigh and down to his calf. Jealousy flared in Brea’s stomach upon seeing her touch Fíli in such a manner, but she kept her mouth shut.

“You have done a good job in setting the bones,” Lhaewen told her, as if she’d sensed Brea’s frustration. She invited her to approach. “Come, look.”

Brea stepped forward, hesitant but curious, aware of the dwarves’ stares on her. The skin on Fíli’s leg was still bruised, she noticed, veined in black and blue, but the dark tinges were beginning to fade into yellow.

“The bones are mending,” Lhaewen explained. She rested her hands on Fíli’s knee, manipulating the bones beneath the muscle. He grunted in pain but she paid him no mind. “The patella is unbroken, the ligaments are whole.” She nodded in approval. “A good job indeed.”

She moved her hands to his chest, counted out the ribs with her fingers. Fíli shuddered under her touch.

“Stop!” The exclamation left Brea’s lips before she could prevent it. Confronted to Lhaewen’s even stare she added: “You’re hurting him.”

“I must assess the extent of the damage.” Lhaewen responded coolly. “If you are unable to keep your feelings in check, perhaps it is better you stepped out.”

Her cheeks aflush with embarrassment, Brea drew back, sulking. She couldn’t watch Fíli’s suffering without reacting, but she had no choice but to trust Lhaewen. After all, she’d asked the elves for help and had fought to make it happen. The only way she could force herself to remain silent was to bite on something, so she raised her fingers to her mouth.

In the meantime Lhaewen had sought out Kíli’s help to turn Fíli onto his side. She’d cut open the bandages that Brea had wrapped his wound with, and prodded at the gash with careful fingers. When Fíli started to gasp for breath she lay a hand on his chest, feeling for the extent of the injuries beneath.

Brea nibbled at her thumbnail until she could bite it no more, so she picked at the skin at the base of the nail until it bled. Her own throat was constricted with anguish. Fíli’s pain was a terrible thing to watch and more terrible still to hear, so she shut her eyes for an instant, praying that his misery would end.

Lhaewyn’s voice rose in a chant, gaining in volume and power with every word. She repeated the phrase over and over, invoking some elven power beyond the reach of mortals. The incantation penetrated Brea’s very being, every word reverberating in her bones. The ache in her chest faded, and she could hear Fíli’s wheezing subside.

She opened her eyes to see the elf standing above him, her hands on either side of his ribcage. In contrast to his state just moments before, Fíli seemed to breathe freely for the first time in days. The look on Kíli’s face reflected her own sense of awe at having witnessed elven magic in action.

Lhaewen looked at her with compassion. “Would you hand me the athelas salve?” She pointed towards her satchel that lay at the foot of the bed.

Still astonished, Brea obeyed. The contents of the healer’s bag were a treasure of pots, flagons and vials of all kind, most of them unidentifiable to her untrained eyes. She fished inside, careful not to break anything, hoping for a label that would help her find the salve Lhaewen required. But every writing she saw was in elvish.

“Round pot, green salve.” The healer’s voice reached her ears.

Lhaewen opened the proffered pot deftly and scooped out a handful of the greenish paste. She spread the poultice over the skin of Fíli’s back, where a fresh, pink scar had formed where the wound had been. She slathered his left leg as well, and the ribs, covering every inch of bruised flesh. As she worked, she muttered more words in her tongue.

When she was finished, half of Fíli’s body was green and glistening with salve, but he seemed in better shape than he had been mere hours ago.

“Let the salve dry and fall off.” Lhaewen wiped her hands on a sheet and looked at Brea. “The wound will close permanently during the night.” She shot a sharp look in Fíli and Kíli’s direction. “I recommend avoiding walking unaided during the next few days.”

“You hear that, Fíli?” Kíli’s voice was excited when he spoke. “We can return to Erebor tomorrow!” He grasped his brother’s hand and squeezed it, grinning. Bofur whooped in joy, falling into Dwalin’s arms, and they all but danced across the room.

Brea’s stomach dropped at Kíli’s words. Tomorrow was almost upon them. In a few hours, Fíli would leave her care and Agnessa’s house, to return to Erebor and rule over his people. She wouldn’t see him again, save from a distance, during some future reunion between their two cities.

She tiptoed out of the room unseen. In the kitchen below she stumbled upon Agnessa, who was wearing her apron for the preparation of her dinner. A pot of broth was boiling over the fire, smelling of onions and laurel. The room was quiet and cozy, far from the elation that reigned upstairs. Agnessa gave her a queer look as Brea sank into one of the chairs before the hearth, tears welling up in her eyes.

“He’s healed,” she explained in a quivering voice as she stared into the flames.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Agnessa asked and began to dice vegetables for the soup.

Brea shrugged. “It was. I’m not so sure anymore.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, angry at herself. “He’s leaving tomorrow. You must be happy, alone at last.”

The sound of the knife on the wooden table ceased, and a warm hand rested on her shoulder. “You cannot keep him holed up forever,” Agnessa said softly. “Not if it’s his happiness you want.”

“I know.”

“You knew this would happen.” Agnessa sat beside her and leaned towards the warmth of the fire. “There were two possible endings to this story, none of which you would’ve liked. Either he died, or he lived. In both cases you lost him.”

Brea nodded mutely. Everything Agnessa said was true, of course, there was no denying it. She’d just refused to think about it for as long as she could, focusing on the present and the pressing matter of Fíli’s recovery.

“Unless…” Agnessa hesitated. “Unless it’s meant to be. In which case, it doesn’t matter whether he leaves or not.”

Brea looked at her in astonishment. “Meant to be?” She laughed bitterly. “He’s the King under the Mountain, and I’m a commoner of Laketown. Such destinies are not for the ordinary folk.”

Agnessa lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. “You never know. Yesterday Bard was a bargeman, now he’s a king. I wasn’t destined for the life I’m living now, and yet here I am.” She patted Brea’s arm. “Enjoy the time you have left with him, and don’t think of tomorrow. If it must be, it’ll be.”


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

_“As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”  
John Green _

oOoOoOo

_October 14 th, T.A. 2941_

Brea sniffed the steaming contents of the bowl in distaste. “Agnessa’s stew again,” she muttered, “I hope it hasn’t gone bad.” She dipped the spoon into the bowl and tasted it gingerly. “It’s fine,” she reassured herself.

Fíli watched her from his bed. Lhaewen had forbade him to move until the morrow, when the healing magic would have fully set in, but for the first time in days he wasn’t in pain. The absence of a constant ache made concentrating easier, and Fíli had chosen to focus on the one subject that most held his interest, Brea herself. He liked to think that he was discreet in his observations, instead of ogling her like a hedge-born. She was a lovely sight for a man’s eyes, from the way her hips swayed when she moved to how her dress hugged her breasts.

Brea brought the dish over to the bed and handed it to him. Their fingers touched and she pulled her hand back in haste. “Eat, “ she said, turning away. “I want to take a look at your leg.”

She was unwilling to meet his eyes, and Fíli wondered whether her reluctance was related to his upcoming recovery and departure for Erebor. They had spoken little since the healer’s visit, but he’d caught her staring at him sadly several times that evening. He swallowed the stew, aware of the fact that her taste still lingered on the spoon. If the evening was to be spent in silence, he’d strive to sort out his own feelings for her.

The first days of his consciousness had been full of Fíli’s grief for Thorin, focused on what could have been, and his own involvement in his uncle’s death. Brea hadn’t pried or attempted to cheer him up, but there was no denying that her quiet presence had grown on him. He’d begun to wonder about her willingness to take such risks and spend so much time caring for a stranger. Fíli had said as much on the shores of the Long Lake, on the first day of their meeting: they were even. Based on the assumption that debt or honor weren’t involved in her decision, the explanation had been easy to find considering the looks she’d been giving him of late.

Brea unwrapped the felt that kept his leg warm and prodded gingerly at the dark salve that covered it. Fíli could see how tired she was. Her movements, which used to be swift and precise, had grown sluggish as if her arms had doubled in weight. Dark circles had developed under her eyes, and her hair was dull and tangled, almost as though the life he’d gained back she had given away.

He winced when a shot of pain raced up his leg. Brea looked sheepish.

“I should go,” she mumbled, pulling a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Fíli was disappointed, but he wouldn’t ask her to stay against her will. “Do you want to ?” he asked instead, peering into her eyes.

Brea hesitated. “I’ll wait until you’re done.”

She settled on the floor beside the bed, her gaze directed at the flickering flame of the candle. The light reflected in the darkness of her eyes, and Fíli wished he knew her thoughts.

He ate in silence, scraping the bowl clean. His appetite had improved greatly since the healer’s visit, and he could already feel his strength returning to his muscles. When he moved to set the bowl back onto the stool, Fíli saw that she’d rested her head on her arm, propped on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, careful not to disturb her, and peered into her face.

Brea was sleeping, her mouth open, breathing steadily as she dreamt. Something contracted in his chest when he saw her so vulnerable and unguarded. She moved in her sleep, crinkling her nose at the uncomfortable position she was in. As her arm extended, her hand came to rest on the top of his thigh.

Fíli stilled, suddenly very aware of the position of every one of her fingers, that only a thin sheet separated from his skin. His heart raced and his body responded to the touch. Slowly, he reached out to move her hand away.

Brea whimpered, still asleep. “Fíli,” she whispered. “Fíli …”

He smiled, amused to learn that she spoke in her sleep. There was little he knew about her, except for her name and her kindness. What kind of life she’d led, back in Laketown, for instance. What happened to her husband, how he had treated her, and what were her views on human-dwarf relationships.

One thing Fíli was certain of: he wanted to hear her say his name again.

In the meantime, he could not let her sleep on the floor, but he didn’t want to wake her either. If he did, she’d leave, and he suspected that it may be the last evening they spent together.

Fíli leaned forward and hoisted her up into the bed, pulling her onto the mattress. His recently closed wound protested but he ignored the pain, suddenly ashamed of how dirty his mattress had become, stained with his own blood and sweat and that greenish slime the elf had covered him in. Brea moaned softly, settling down beside him. She rolled into a ball, her back towards him, trying perhaps to warm herself up in her sleep.

Fíli allowed her space, moving away for propriety’s sake. He rolled onto his side without moving his injured leg, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He’d never shared a bed with a woman before, and even if his current situation did not match his expectations for that first time, he was content.

A memory came to his mind, a lesson in old dwarven lore. It spoke of a tradition that existed before there were kings and kingdoms, when things were simple and less ceremonial. In those times, man and woman could be bound before the Maker with no consent or knowledge other than their own. The tradition as he remembered it required only three conditions to be fulfilled, and Fíli counted two of them to be accomplished already.

One remained, like an invitation to shape his future and force the hand of fate.

Brea began to snore, another sign of how tired she was. She had committed herself fully to see him healed, and Fíli refused to believe that she felt nothing for him but compassion, or worse, pity. There was something between them, that much was certain, something yet unspoken but growing. Fíli wanted to see if given the chance it would bloom.

All he needed was to buy them some time.

oOoOoOo

Fíli inhaled as deep as he could, relishing the sensation of freedom in his lungs. The cold air burned his throat and prickled his skin, a welcome feeling after days of confinement and inaction. Even the simple act of walking was a pleasure, despite having to lean on Dwalin for support. Lhaewen had predicted a speedy recovery of his leg if he didn’t overtax it, and Fíli was determined to see it healed as soon as possible. 

He tilted his head to look upon the sky, purple and blue in the early hours of the morning, a promise of a clear, sunny day, one of the last before winter. A small crowd had gathered to watch them leave, early risers heading to work, or housewives already occupied with their chores of the day. But none of them had the familiar black hair or dark eyes he’d been hoping to see. None of them were Brea. 

Fíli hid his disappointment, turning towards his brother. “How are the others? Did they stay in Erebor?”

He knew that some dwarves in the company still had families in the Blue Mountains, which was reason enough to leave once the battle for the Lonely Mountain was over. He’d hoped to retain most of the company within the newly restored kingdom, so that the halls of Erebor would be filled with life once again. 

Kíli grimaced. “They did… Not entirely their choice, though.” He tightened the cinch of his saddle before adding, “Dáin’s been lusting for your throne. He’d kept them busy and under surveillance, hoping to discover your whereabouts.” 

Fíli’s mood darkened further. Even though he’d never aspired to be king as long as Thorin lived, the throne was his by right. His uncle hadn’t died defending his kin for him to discard the heirloom in favor of a more distant branch of Durin’s line. 

“If he’s looking for me, he’ll be served.” 

He glanced towards the gawkers that loitered around them. Still no sign of Brea. Fíli was starting to worry that she’d taken offense at his behavior of the previous night. When he’d woken up that morning she was already gone, the space beside him long since cold. He hadn’t had the chance to explain that his decision had been motivated by compassion rather than some lecherous motive, and feared that she’d seen his gesture as quite a lousy reward for her help. 

Dwalin helped him reach the horses that were tied nearby. According to Kíli, the elves had provided them with mounts from the camp and into Dale, one for each dwarf. But now that he was healed, two of the dwarves would have to share. The choice had fallen upon Dwalin and Bofur, much to the annoyance of the former and the indifference of the latter. 

Fíli reached up to pat the neck of his own steed, a gray mare twice as tall as the pony that had carried him out of the Shire. She appeared calm and gentle enough, which reassured him somewhat considering her size. 

“Dáin’s not the worst,” Kíli mused behind him. “His man Nárin’s decided to make him King under the Mountain, and Mahal knows what’ll happen to Dáin if he does reach the throne.” Kíli grinned and drew his finger under his chin, from one side of his neck to the other. “He’s like to have an accidental death, I’d wager.” 

“Serves him right for betraying his rightful king.” Dwalin’s gruff voice commented. That earned him a few wary glances from the crowd, but he didn’t care. 

“We must return to Erebor at once.” Fíli clenched his jaw. “There’s been enough fighting already, we dwarves need not fight amongst us as well. I must reclaim the throne, and the sooner it is done, the better.”

“You tell Nárin that,” Kíli shrugged. “Besides,” he added, smirking, “You might want to say your goodbyes first.” He winked at Fíli, nodding towards the crowd. 

Fíli turned around. Amongst the few people that still dawdled in front of the house, watching them with mild curiosity, stood the one person he’d been hoping to see. Brea stood apart from the crowd, his old cloak wrapped around her shoulders tightly to ward off the morning chill. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, exposing cheeks flushed by her trek through the city. 

Fíli’s heartbeat quickened, the grim cloud that had shadowed his mind lifted. He summoned Dwalin with a gesture to walk a few steps in her direction, intent on having a conversation with her before they left Dale. Brea watched him in silence, her face a mixture of feelings, but stepped forward as well. 

“You came,” he beamed.

He was rewarded with a shy smile in return, her eyes darting to his own briefly before she looked away again. Fíli’s joy was short-lived when he noticed the state of her hands, nails bitten almost to the bone and bleeding.

“How are you feeling?” Brea’s question drew his attention back to her face.

“Surprisingly well.” He opened his arms to demonstrate his statement. “I still have a hole in my armor, but the one in my back is healed.”

Brea smiled, this time in genuine amusement. “How un-kingly of you,” she quipped.

“My mother would be ashamed.”

Fíli hobbled closer, aware of Dwalin’s vigilant eyes on his back. He hoped she would cover what little distance still lay between them, but Brea only cast a dismayed glance towards the horses and the rest of the group that waited for him to finish.

“Thank you,” he said, “For saving my life.” At last she was looking at him again, so he continued, hoping to retain her attention. “I am forever in your debt, and once I’m crowned king, I’ll do what I can to repay your kindness.”

The words had seemed adequate when he’d thought them out, but once he’d said them, Fíli regretted his choice. Brea’s face darkened and she nodded.

“Of course, you have to go.” She glanced into his eyes, fiddling with a corner of the cloak. “Stay safe on your journey.” She hesitated. “I wanted to give you the brooch back, but I’m afraid I lost it.”

Fíli frowned. “What brooch?”

“The one that held the cloak together.” Brea gestured to her neck. “It was a golden clasp with a drawing on it.” She looked to the ground again. “I must’ve fallen out of my pocket during the attack. I’m sorry.”

Fíli didn’t dare tell her of the heaps of gold that lay within the mountain, and how one golden pin was nothing compared to such a treasure. She seemed genuinely disconsolate, sustaining his belief that she’d cared enough for the clasp and its owner to regret its loss.

The piece of ancient lore sprang to his mind once again as he reached into his vest.

“I’m sorry you won’t have anything to remember me by,” he winked, earning a deep blush from her rosy cheeks. When she opened her mouth to protest he continued, “Here’s something to keep as a memory.”

By dwarven standards the dagger was simple, sturdy iron engraved with gold and a leather-bound handle worn with use. To Fíli the weapon held a special significance. It was the first dagger he’d received from his mother when he’d come of age, the first one he’d used to slay a foe in combat. He’d gotten better and richer blades in the following years, keeping the first one as a memory of happier times. There was none that lay as comfortably within this hand as the one he was now giving away.

Behind him, Dwalin was starting to complain about the time, grumbling into his beard. Fíli shot the dwarf a glance that silenced him, allowing Brea to express her gratitude.

“I… Thank you,” she said, surprised. “I’ll keep it safe this time.” The weapon looked big in her hands, despite being designed for one smaller than herself.

Fíli smiled. He caught one of her hands before she could draw away, capturing it gently into his own. Her skin was rough and dry beneath his fingers, prickly where she’d bitten at her fingertips. Most women would rue the state of it, but to Fíli there was no touch sweeter or more familiar.

He pulled Brea’s hand towards his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She gasped softly, her fingers twitched beneath his own.

“Keep it safe for me,” he said, bowing. “And farewell.”

He wanted to promise that he’d return soon, but a king must keep his promises, and Fíli wasn’t certain of what the future would bring. Struggles and warfare awaited him still, perhaps not of a bloody nature, but no less ugly and lethal. His only certainty was as soon as he could he would return to Dale and finish what he’d started.

He mounted his horse, aided by Bofur, who then clambered atop his own mount with Dwalin’s help. Brea watched them leave with watery eyes, the dagger clutched against her breast.

“The sun is high already,” Dwalin complained as they plodded along the street, “We must hurry if we’re to reach our destination before nightfall.”

“The Lonely Mountain’s going nowhere,” Fíli replied grimly, melancholic at the memory of Brea’s tears. “Dáin won’t take the throne away with him.”

“It’s not Erebor we’re heading to.” Kíli turned in his saddle to smirk at his sullenness. He pulled on the reins of his horse after the gates of the city, veering his mount off the road that led to the mountain.

Fíli soon recognized the path they were taking. He gripped the reins tighter, fighting the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Cold sweat ran down his back.

Before them, Ravenhill loomed, swaddled in grey clouds and cloaked in snow.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

_“May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.”  
Nelson Mandela _

oOoOoOo

_October 15 th, T.A. 2941_

As the path grew steeper, Kíli had to hold onto the pommel in order not to slide off. He missed the deep saddle of his pony back in Eriador, where one could fall asleep without risking a tumble. Glancing behind him, he noted that his brother and friends faced the same problem. Dwalin clutched the pommel with both hands while Bofur held onto his waist. From his position at the head of the column Kíli could only see the hat wobbling on each side of his head. He snorted at the image of Dwalin’s large, fluffy ears.

Fíli shared none of his amusement. His brother gripped the saddle with white-knuckled hands, his eyes trained on the snowy peak above them. He’d not said a word since they’d left Dale, trusting Kíli’s decision but disliking it anyway.

Despite the improvement of the popular opinion about dwarves that followed the elves’ arrival into town, Kíli was relieved to see him out of that house and of the city. Fíli himself seemed content to escape the tiny room he’d been confined to, but his feelings were tainted with regret. Kíli knew that he was leaving behind more than just some blood and a torn tunic.

A man of duty first and foremost, Fíli had left without a word of complaint, returning to his people as the situation demanded it. Kíli suddenly remembered him as less grave and more carefree, when the burden of the throne didn’t loom over his head. He’d been a cheerful, enthusiastic older brother, dragging Kíli along to proudly show him the best places in town and the richest blackberry bushes in the woods. He’d taught him how to swim in one of the deep, cold lakes that lay in the mountains, and patched up his scrapes and bruises, so that their mother wouldn’t see that he’d been fighting.

She always knew, of course. Their mother had lost her husband early in her marriage and feared to lose a son, or both, to a quest that she’d deemed foolish and hopeless. She’d never know how close she’d been to her worst nightmare. To grieve for a brother was burden enough.

“I’m freezing my balls off,” Dwalin grumbled as a bitter wind rose from the hill, biting at their faces and slowing down their progression. “There better be a fire up there.”

As on cue, an orange hue crept up the ruins atop the hill.

“The others are here,” Kíli called out to the rest of their small group. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the misshapen towers for sentries and archers. Balin had sent word they’d meet on Ravenhill, but messages could be intercepted or falsified, and friends could be ambushed and replaced.

His horse stumbled as the sun went down behind the hill and the shadows crept up the path beside them. A face appeared in the crack of a broken wall, and Kíli was relieved to see Nori salute them from above.

“The king!” he called out to someone beyond the wall, “Our king has arrived!”

Cheers rose from the ruins, incorporeal but familiar. The group rode past a fallen tower and emerged into the ancient courtyard, where a fire burned bright, complete with skewers of meat that drizzled grease into the flames. Bombur was at work, preparing supper for the company.

Kíli noted that none of them had adventured onto the frozen lake, keeping clear of the battleground that had seen Thorin’s demise. They wouldn’t have chosen Ravenhill as a meeting spot, if not for the certainty that no-one would come searching for them here.

“You made it!” Balin fell into Kíli’s arms before embracing Fíli with tears in his eyes. “My lad, we feared you’d not survive.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” Fíli grinned. He lay a hand on Kíli’s shoulder. “Without my brother, though, I wouldn’t be here today.”

They joined the rest of the group that had gathered around the fire after Nori’s shout. Dwalin and Balin embraced wordlessly, the discreet joy they felt at seeing each other again soon eclipsed by Bofur’s cheerful reunion with his brethren.

“I smell supper!” Kíli clasped his hands, rubbing them together for warmth.

He’d pressed on since they left Dale, anxious to be on time for the meeting. His stomach had been rumbling since noon, complaining of the absence of a decent meal. He had no doubt that Fíli was just as starving after his prolonged diet of thin stew and herbs.

“Aye, Bifur’s caught some rabbits after we arrived.” Balin nodded before continuing. “Let’s eat, and then we must talk. Oh and lad, we have something for you.”

He gestured towards a corner of the courtyard. Armor, sword, bow and arrows, Kíli was delighted to see that his old equipment had been gathered and brought along. He’d felt half-naked without his usual gear, and particularly helpless without the long-range weaponry he’d favored since childhood.

The meat was juicy but scarce. The company shared the skewers amongst themselves, each of the dwarves silently deploring the absence of a drink to wash it down. Kíli promised himself he’d feed them better the following day, now that he was able to hunt again.

“How did you escape?” he wondered aloud, chewing on the remains of his portion.

“There’s been some confusion after you left,” Dori explained. “We took advantage of the situation and vanished.”

“We borrowed some of Dáin’s rams,” Nori added, wiping the grease off his mouth with the back of his hand. “To ensure we’d not be caught again.”

“None of this would have been necessary if I hadn’t failed.”

His brother was staring over the fire, towards the lake and the frozen waterfall. The grim memories that haunted the place had smothered what joy he’d felt at being reunited with his friends, his fragile health and morale an easy prey for gloom and regret.

“No-one blames you, lad.” Balin’s soft voice intervened. “There’s nothing more you could’ve done…”

“I shouldn’t have let Azog lure me into his trap. I should’ve helped Thorin kill him, and our uncle would still be with us.” Fíli was toying with his skewer, his gaze fixed on the flames. “There are many things I would’ve done differently, had I known what the future would bring.” He dropped the remains of his meal onto the ground and stood, oblivious of Bombur who caught them for himself, his dexterity unhindered by his size.

Balin sighed. “Such is the case for any of us. We all loved Thorin dearly, we all mourn his loss. But you’re alive, Fíli. You’re alive. Do you think Thorin would’ve wanted you to linger in the past, instead of looking to the future?”

Fíli thought it over before smiling. “You’re right, Balin, as always.” He sat down again and lay a hand on the older dwarf’s shoulder. “Thorin held your counsel in high esteem.” He looked around the group. “He cared for all of you, the friends who answered his summons in times of need.”

The dwarves nodded, mumbles of assent rising from the gathering. Fíli waited for the murmurs to subside before continuing. “Tomorrow, I will ride to Erebor, to reclaim the throne he came to defend. I know you have families waiting for you. For over a year, none of you have seen your loved ones, or held your sons and daughters in your arms.” He glanced at Oín and Glóin. “I am proud to call each and every one of you a friend. I won’t ask you to follow me, but should you choose to ride beside me, I can promise you that the line of Durin will not forget your loyalty.”

oOoOoOo

“Dáin has over two hundred men left,” Nori reported, “Some of whom are wounded.” He shook his head. “Still, that’s a lot of well-trained fighters at his disposal.” He used his knife to clean his nails, flicking his findings into the flames much to his brother’s disgust.

Night had fallen, drawing the group closer around the fire to enjoy its warmth. Kíli had regaled them with the tale of the theft they’d committed for Fíli’s sake, and his meeting with the Elvenking. As the hours passed, the voices became hushed, and the conversation turned towards the reconquest of the mountain.

Balin nodded in agreement. “Yet some of them disapprove of Nárin’s methods, and remain loyal to the eldest line of Durin.” He shut his eyes while he considered the situation. “That makes less than a hundred men who’d be willing to join our cause.”

“A hundred and twelve against a hundred?” Dwalin barked out a laugh. “I’ve seen worse odds.”

Balin shot his brother a dirty look. “Less than a hundred, I said.” He glanced over at Fíli. “And even that number may be too bold. My lad, I’d not risk a fight if I had the choice.”

“Do I?” Fíli sighed, rubbing his leg absent-mindedly. “Do I have a choice, Balin?”

The eldest of the group did not answer. Kíli watched his brother weigh the pros and cons of another war, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“We could ask for help,” Ori piped up. “I can write a letter to…”

“To whom?” Glóin glowered at him. “Who’d help us? The elves? The folk of Dale? Or our own people, whom we’ve bled dry for this adventure?” He crossed his arms on his chest. “I stand with Dwalin. Let’s meet this usurper in an open field, a weapon in our hand.”

“And die from a weapon to our head?” Balin shook his head. “Listen to yourself. Have you forgotten that we have wounded men amongst us? Are you so eager to get us all killed?”

Dori, Ori and Oín nodded, siding with Balin. Glóin jumped to his feet, shaking his fist towards them, while Dwalin glared at his brother. Bifur and Bofur erupted in protest, confident in the success of Glóin’s plan. Nori took no sides, surveying both factions with feigned indifference, and Bombur took advantage of the confusion to steal the remaining food.

Thorin would’ve bellowed for quiet, Kíli mused, but the dissent and the exhaustion of the journey had worn Fíli out. His brother closed his eyes, waiting for the storm to pass.

Kíli suddenly remembered the letter he’d stolen from Dáin’s office and its contents.

“There’s another way.” He stood and pushed Glóin down, forcing him to sit back down. “Oi, listen! I have an idea.”

“Silence!” Fíli’s voice cracked across the courtyard. A shocked hush followed his outburst, and he motioned for Kíli to continue.

Kíli reached into his pocket and produced the missive. The parchment was worn from being folded and squished, but the royal seal of the Iron Hills glimmered brightly in the light of the fire, drawing curious stares from the rest of the company.

“While we were looking for the gems, I found this.” He unfolded the letter so that everyone could see the neat, spiky writing that covered the page. “I took the liberty to borrow it from Dáin, as a safe-conduct of sorts, but we can still use it against him.”

He handed the parchment to his brother, who read the contents in silence, his eyes widening in surprise. Wordlessly he offered the letter to Balin, who squinted at the small letters before reading aloud.

“Written on the seventh of October, in Gurulazgoth, by the hand of Fóri, queen of…” Balin’s voice died down as he read further.

Dwalin squirmed on his side of the fire. “What does it say?” he growled impatiently.

“It’s a private matter,” Balin snapped, folding the missive before handing it back to Fíli. “Private and delicate, yes.” He stroked his beard. “Kíli is right. We can use this to parley with Dáin, and force him to abandon his claim to the throne.”

Fíli nodded, staring into the fire. “To use another man’s family squabbles against him seems dishonorable, but to risk another war with such a slim chance of success…” He sighed, thinking. “Thorin would’ve faced Dáin and let his sword to the talking.”

“You are not your uncle.” Balin lay a hand on his arm. “I am an old man, and tired. I speak for myself when I ask you to at least consider it.”

“And you, brother? What do you think?” Fíli turned towards him. “Would you have me fight, or negotiate?”

Kíli knew that his hesitation was written plainly on his face. Fíli knew him too long and too well for Kíli to lie, but this was a decision he dared not influence. The first decision of a king should come from him alone, to set the tone and shape his rule for the years to come.

In everything else they’d sided together, from brawls to battles, facing punishment as one whenever their mother couldn’t discern which one of her sons was guilty. This was the one time he had to leave Fíli alone.

“You know me,” he began, “And my temper.” He smiled. “I’m the reckless one, the carefree. The foolish one, at times. You know what I’d do, brother, but you’re not me.” He gazed into Fíli’s eyes, trying to lend him strength and courage. “I think it’s brave to face one’s enemies, especially when you’re tired and outnumbered. But I think it’s braver still to choose a different path when everyone around you would have you stand and fight.”

Kíli brushed off his hands on his leggings, trying to appear composed. He slid a hand into his pocket, fingering the rune stone that lay there, the token that sealed his promise to return home safe. He hadn’t checked, but he was certain that Fíli needn’t such a reminder. He was used to taking what he was given and excelling in performing his duty without a word of complaint. If there was one thing he needed now, it was the love and support of his brother.

“I trust your wisdom as I have trusted you in everything, since I was born and until this moment. Thorin would’ve said that your choice will determine what kind of king you want to be. I don’t know much about that.”

Kíli felt something wet and cold on his cheek, like a kiss from beyond the grave. He looked up to see a white veil descend from the north. The next snowflake melted in his hair.

“All I know is that I’m proud to be your brother. Tomorrow I will follow you, be it to the throne of Erebor or to the end of us both.”


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

_“One of the greatest regrets in life is being what others would want you to be, rather than being yourself.”  
Shannon L. Alder_

oOoOoOo

_October 16 th, T.A. 2941_

When Kíli woke up that morning, shivering and famished, he struggled to remember where he was. As he threw aside the cloak that covered him, he found that he’d been buried in snow during the night. Ravenhill lay white and silent, more peaceful than he’d ever seen it before, until the other dwarves woke and started to complain.

He and the others hadn’t dared seek shelter within the ruins of the old fort, where many bitter memories lurked in the shadows. They camped around the fire, dreaming of warmth and home.

Kíli rose and brushed the snow off his clothes, grimacing as a handful of it slid behind his collar and down his back. Beside him, Fíli emerged from his own cloak, his hair and beard crusted with white. He grimaced and rubbed his left leg.

“Does it still hurt?” Kíli inquired quietly, so as not to draw any attention to his brother’s struggle.

Fíli shrugged. “I suppose I’ll never get rid of the ache,” he mused. “Do you remember old Borin? The one who complained about his bad knee every time it rained?”

Kíli lay a land on his snow-covered shoulder. “You’ll heal. Give it time.”

They ate a cold and frugal breakfast made of anything the company had managed to steal during their escape from Erebor. To Kíli’s dismay the general mood was sour rather than victorious, which augured for a long, trying day. When Nori arrived to announce that some of the rams and one of the horses had fled during the night, he was not in the least surprised.

It took them a good part of the morning to climb down the hill, as the horses slipped and stumbled on the snow-covered path. The rams were more sure-footed but carried two dwarves each, and Kíli mused that they’d make quite a miserable appearance before the gates of Erebor in a few hours’ time.

Fíli seemed to harbor the same opinion. “The King under the Mountain’s about to make a spectacular entrance,” he muttered, “Riding a borrowed horse, hungry and wet.”

The snowfall hadn’t spared the Lonely Mountain, spreading its cloak down to the valley below. The distant roofs and vaults of Dale lay grey and dull, the lively colors of the city buried and frozen. The stone ramparts of the dwarven kingdom had been dusted with snow as well, the red and black banners of the Iron Hills standing out against the white.

As soon as their small procession reached the road that led from Dale to Erebor, trumpets blared in the distance, warning Dáin of their arrival.

“I get the feeling I’ve been here before,” Kíli muttered to Balin as the gates opened and a small battalion emerge from the depths of the mountain. Even from afar Kíli recognized the silhouette of Dáin’s spectacular helmet and his warhog.

Balin shot him a sharp look. “Then try to learn something from last time. Let your brother do the talking.”

As they came closer, Kíli saw that Nárin rode beside his king, a murderous look on his face. Dáin himself was no less welcoming, his eyes narrowed, his hammer in his hand. In addition to the two of them Kíli counted fifty men, mounted and armed, ready to attack as soon as Dáin gave the order.

“He looks really happy to see you,” he quipped, grinning at his brother to lighten the mood.

“It’s you he’s glowering at,” Fíli shot back. “Perhaps I should barter you for the throne instead.”

Before Kíli could reply, Dáin raised his armored fist and the army stopped, in full view of the archers posted above the gates. If the heirs of Durin wanted to parley, they’d have to come within reach of their arrows, and Kíli didn’t like their chances should the conversation turn sour. He knew Fíli understood it too.

“Fíli son of Grundin.” Dáin’s voice carried over the plain. “So you’ve decided to return to your people at last.” He opened his arms. “I’m glad to see our king is healed, and has accepted to grace us with his presence.”

Fíli grit his teeth. “Indeed I am your king, Dáin Ironfoot, and when and where I go is none of your business.”

His brother’s grip tightened on the reins of his horse. Beside him, Balin sighed, no doubt cursing the stubbornness that ran in the blood of Durin’s descendants.

“A king of thieves!” Dáin spat out. “Do you deny it? Do you deny that your brother insulted me, stole from me and attacked my men?” His face was turning crimson. To his right, Nárin seemed to enjoy himself, anticipating the fight to come.

“My brother did what he must to save my life.” Fíli snapped. “While you would’ve let me die, to seize a throne that should never be yours.”

“A king should not leave his people!” Dáin shook his head. “We dwarves should stick together, be it in times of joy or hardship. But you preferred to flee, to seek help from elves and men.” He spat on the ground. “I don’t want a king who’s afraid to die, Fíli son of Grundin… But I cannot deny your claim to the throne. If your people will have you, so be it.”

Balin had watched the escalation in silent helplessness, but now Kíli saw him relax. The older dwarf smiled, relieved to hear Dáin openly recognize Fíli’s as his rightful king. Even Kíli was surprised by such an easy victory. Perhaps he was growing old as well, turning gloomy in his predictions, and they’d be feasting inside the mountain before nightfall.

Fíli seemed doubtful. “You would leave Erebor willingly?”

Dáin shrugged and smiled, but his grin didn’t reach his eyes. “I came here willingly to help your late uncle Thorin fight off the army of elves that infested his doorstep. I will leave in peace… If you grant me justice.”

“Oh no,” Balin whispered.

Fíli narrowed his eyes. “What kind of justice?”

“As I said, your brother stole from me, and killed my men. I demand that you hand him over to my judgement, as you would a thief and a murderer.”

“You dare…”

Fíli clenched his jaw, his whole body tense with the effort it took to contain himself. Kíli fared little better, itching to notch an arrow and stick it into Dáin’s conceited mug.

“Lads, please!” Balin pleaded. His voice was almost inaudible, but it seemed to penetrate Fíli’s anger and reach whatever ounce of reason he still possessed.

His brother took a deep breath. “Dáin son of Náin,” he called out, “My uncle’s cousin and friend. Your accusations against my brother Kíli are grave, do you have any evidence of what you claim?”

“Evidence?” Dáin scoffed. “Five dead bodies, is that enough for you?”

Fíli shrugged. “My brother told me another story, and I have written proof of his innocence.”

He dismounted, wincing when his left foot touched the ground, and took a few uncertain steps towards the opposing party. “Will you speak with me, king to king, and let me clear his name?”

Dáin hesitated before imitating him. He ignored Nárin’s protests and jumped off his warhog, throwing the reins into the hands of one of his soldiers. They met halfway, two times two men in the middle of a snowy plain. Dáin sized Kíli up before turning towards Fíli with a stern look upon his face.

“I’ll hear your brother out,” he muttered, “And see that proof, out of the respect I had for your uncle. But tell me lies and we’ll have words of another kind.”

Kíli seethed. “I didn’t kill your men.” He jabbed a finger at Nárin. “He did.”

Before Dáin could open his mouth to retaliate, Fíli had reached into a pocket of his vest and produced the letter from Gurulazgoth. From afar, the seal at its bottom was indistinguishable, but both Dáin and Nárin recognized it at once.

Dáin blanched. “Where did you get this?” And as he understood, he added, “You had no right!” His hands shook with suppressed rage.

“I would’ve preferred not to resort to such ways,” Fíli stated, “But when you attacked my family you gave me the right to do the same.” Dáin moved to grasp the piece of parchment, but Fíli was quicker. He pulled the letter out of his reach and folded it back into his pocket.

“You will clear Kíli’s name, loudly and immediately,” he announced. “Whether you want to investigate the deaths of your men and restore some order within your ranks is up to you.” He shot Nárin a meaningful glance. “I wouldn’t trust this one as far as I could throw him.”

“I should kill you here and now.” Dáin hissed, spitting into his beard.

“You could,” Fíli agreed. “I’ll have you know that one of my people has made enough copies to inform your whole kingdom that your wife has requested your marriage to be dissolved.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “It’s a dishonorable position for any man, to displease his lady enough for her to flee. For a king, it is unforgivable. If your wife doesn’t trust you, why should your people?”

“You milksop.” Dáin laughed bitterly, understanding that the battle was lost. “What do you know of marriage?” He spat before Fíli’s feet. “The line of Durin is cursed. You’ll die a heirless king on a crumbling throne. Mark my words, when you die the throne will be ours.”

Fíli crossed his arms, facing Dáin’s tirade without flinching. “I will endeavor to prove you wrong,” he retorted, “And have as many sons as my wife will grant me.” He bowed, ending the conversation much to Dáin’s discomfiture. “Give your lady my regards… While you still can.”

oOoOoOo

“Mahal’s beard, lad, what were you thinking?” Balin cried out as he paced the room.

They’d waited for the others to lumber off to sleep, drunk on their unexpected victory, before raising the matter of his brother’s marriage. The mountain was theirs, and Dáin was on his way to the Iron Hills with his tail between his legs.

Fíli sat at the table with a sullen look upon his face, his dinner long since finished. The one-sided conversation was going in circles, where Balin recriminations were answered with monosyllabic glowering.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Balin added, “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, and she saved your life. But you simply can’t!”

Fíli crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “It’s done.” He narrowed his eyes at Balin. “According to our laws and customs, Brea is my wife.”

The older dwarf shook his head, glancing at Ori, who was poring over the oldest books of dwarven lore in the mountain, those which hadn’t yet crumbled into dust. “What is done can be undone. If she were to petition…”

“She doesn’t know.” Fíli muttered.

Balin stared at him in shock. “You haven’t told her you were married?” He threw his hands towards the ceiling. “Of all the stupid, stubborn dwarves I’ve met…” He finished his sentence in khuzdul, and even Kíli winced at the curse.

Fíli appeared indifferent to his elder’s disapproval. “The law of three is the oldest of all the marriage customs of our people. Borin used to teach us about it.” He winked at Fíli. “Hrór’s _Comprehensive history of the Khazad_ , and all that.”

Boring Borin, he and Fíli used to call him. Kíli remembered the droning voice of his former teacher, and a yawn escaped his lips. It earned him a disapproving look from Balin, who then resumed berating his brother.

“Don’t you give me Hrór, lad. That book’s a load of rubbish mixed with some truth.”

“But it is a reference in terms of dwarven history,” Ori piped up. He shriveled under Balin’s withering gaze, and dove back into his book.

“Besides, the law doesn’t apply to humans. Such a marriage cannot be considered valid in regards to our traditions.”

Kíli frowned. The memory of one of the lessons floated through his mind. He could hear Borin’s voice again, flat and lifeless, recounting the history of the kings of old. It had been a warm, summer day, and Kíli’d been daydreaming, impatient for the lesson to end. Borin had prattled about Durin III and his legacy.

“Didn’t one of the Durins’ brothers marry a human?” he wondered aloud.

“Durin the Third, indeed!” Ori beamed. “His brother Dori, my own brother’s namesake, married a woman of the human race.” He scratched his head. “As far as I can remember, they successfully produced at least one offspring, which means that such a marriage isn’t bound to be barren.”

Balin rubbed his eyes and sank down into a chair, defeated. “This must be announced,” he sighed. “But we must be smart about it. After the coronation would be a fitting moment, so that no-one can dispute your claim to the throne.”

“Why wait for so long?” Fíli fretted.

Kíli suspected that his brother had imagined riding back to Dale as soon as Dáin’s army was out of the mountain, to see Brea again and express his gratitude in an appropriate manner, one that would involve a proper courtship and perhaps some more kissing.

Balin shot him an irked look. “A king needs the support of his people,” he advised. “The great dwarven families will not take kindly to being cast aside for a human, especially since none of them had the chance to present you with their daughters.” He stroked his beard, pondering. “Yes,” he added, “I think it would be wiser to wait.”

Kíli laughed at his brother’s frustration. “Cheer up, brother,” he smirked, his arm around Fíli’s shoulders. “It’s only in two weeks. What could possibly happen until then?”


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

_“Just because something isn't a lie does not mean that it isn't deceptive. A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of truth in order to deceive is a craftsman of destruction.”  
Criss Jami_

oOoOoOo

_November 3 rd, T.A. 2941_

Brea added another log to the fire before rising and brushing her hands off on her skirts. The small room was warming up after a cold night, and her breath still fogged the air whenever she exhaled. She heard her aunt move upstairs, rising and dressing, and decided to start on the preparation of a breakfast for both of them.

The house she and Mildred had shared with Alva and her family had been a temporary accommodation, to last only until a new home could be found for the people who’d fled Laketown and its fires. In the aftermath of the attack on Dale her search for a new house had been halted, but after almost two weeks of waiting she’d gotten the news from Alva herself.

“A nice little house not far from here,” the woman had nodded approvingly, “And higher up the hill. Closer to your work, and easier for Mildred to get around.”

Brea doubted her aunt would be more willing to leave the house than she’d been in Esgaroth, but she refrained from saying so. A house closer to the palace and the halls of healing was good news indeed, as the new social status of the former Laketowners was now measured in terms of altitude: the higher the better.

She fished around in the only cupboard in the room to find an intact plate and a chipped one, two cups and one knife. Their new home had a hearth and an upstairs, but lacked severely in furniture and kitchenware.

Mildred appeared in the staircase just as Brea was finishing cutting the crust of bread in two. She poured boiling water from the pot above the fire into the cups and added some tea leaves in each for flavor. Breakfast would be frugal this morning, as Brea had yet to visit the market for food and supplies.

That was the second good news she’d received of late: her services as a healer during the attack and after had been appreciated, and a permanent position had been offered, including a small salary. Brea and her aunt had done the counting, and with some careful spending they should be able to afford a table and even two new beds within months. The rest of the money would be divided between food and firewood.

“Already up?” Mildred yawned, descending the stairs with careful steps. She was still unused to their new house, and prodded each step with her foot before putting her weight on it. She had counted twenty-one steps, but it would take her some time to climb the stairs up and down without hesitating.

“Morning, Ma,” Brea announced to make her position known. She walked up to her aunt and took her hand, laying it on her arm to lead her towards the chair.

“Isn’t it your day of rest?” Mildred inquired. “You should’ve slept some more.”

Brea shrugged. “I wake with the sun, Ma. It’s a habit now.”

The shutters of the upstairs window had been partially burned during Smaug’s attack on Dale nearly two hundred years ago. Every morning, the first rays of sunshine peered through the blackened panes, rousing Brea from her sleep.

They ate in silence, dipping their bread into the tea. Through the window Brea could see the town waking as well, people scuttling towards their destination. The glass was soot-stained and cracked, and Brea made a mental note to add its repairs to the future budget.

“Any news from your young man?” Mildred asked once her portion was finished. She sipped on her tea, looking into Brea’s direction.

“No.”

Over two weeks had passed since Fíli had left, and she’d had no news from Erebor whatsoever. Brea had learned from the other townsfolk that the dwarven army from the Iron Hills had retreated shortly after, and the elves had left Dale once the worst of the wounds had been healed. Lhaewen had bid her goodbye in a neutral and concise manner, wishing her a pleasant life.

It saddened her to think that her help hadn’t meant as much for him as she would’ve hoped, and that her feelings may have been unrequited. In Brea’s mind, such a long period of absence could only mean indifference, and even though she’d been certain of Fíli’s fondness for her, it appeared that she’d overestimated that too.

“I’m fine,” she added, trying to sound cheerful. “He’s to be a king, Ma. I’m sure he’s busier than I.”

“Of course, darling.” Her aunt reached out and found her hand, patting it reassuringly. “You did what was right. That’s the only thing that matters.”

oOoOoOo

The market was bustling with activity. Stalls and people were scattered around the plaza, merchants shouting about their wares, buyers haggling for a better price. A permanent buzz of noise and movement, it was the beating heart of the city once a week.

Brea wandered from one stall to another, examining the produce and meats, calculating their needs and savings. She’d found a small, half-charred basket lying on the street a few days ago, and had brought it home to be cleaned. Now it hung from her arm, a bunch of carrots sticking out.

She bought a few potatoes, choosing the funny-shaped ones or those which were a little spoiled already, so that their price would be lower. As she put them into the basket, a familiar voice called out her name.

“Brea, hey! Over here!”

She turned around to see Toril, one of the other healers from the hall, wave at her from across the stall. Brea smiled and waved back.

Toril had been a housewife before the attack and a mother of five. With four sons at home, she’d learned early in her life to treat injuries and sew up gashes. These skills had come in handy in their new life, and she’d volunteered to help with the wounded as soon as the need for more healers arose.

“Have you heard the news?” Toril gushed over her own bag of vegetables. “There’s a new King under the Mountain! One of them dwarves has been crowned two days ago, I learnt it from Jorunn.”

Jorunn worked in Bard’s house as a maid, and therefore had all the prime news concerning the politics of Dale and the neighboring lands.

Brea was certain she must’ve paled, but she tried to maintain her composure. “Oh really?” she commented, “That must’ve been a grand affair… Bard was invited, I imagine?”

Toril nodded. “Yes, he and all his children. Jorunn said the Elvenking was present as well, though he didn’t stay for the feast.”

Remembering the king’s behavior, Brea could easily understand why he’d be loath to linger in a mountain full of dwarves.

“Anyways, I have to go. See you tomorrow, and give your aunt my regards!”

Toril disappeared in the crowd. Mildred had helped with the birthing of four of her children, and the woman held her in high esteem, as many other women of Dale did. Brea hadn’t had the time to gain such a good reputation. The years when she’d worked as a midwife on her own had been few, but she hoped that with time she’d be solicited again for her knowledge and skills.

In the meantime, Brea would make do with the work she could find. Building herself a new life was the best way to forget how much she missed Fíli.

oOoOoOo

The basket was full and heavy by the time she was finished, pressing painfully on the crook of her arm. Brea made her way back home, winding between the now empty stalls, gawking at the prettier houses of the district. Those who’d made it out of Laketown with some belongings were making a comfortable new life for themselves in Dale. Shops were starting to flourish here and there, the old wooden signs restored to their former beauty.

There was a commotion ahead, and Brea had to crane her neck to see what it was about. Like a sign from the Gods, Bard’s dark-haired figure emerged from the crowd, flanked by two ranks of guardsmen. Brea noted that his clothing had improved since his bargeman days. His old, torn coat had been replaced by a new one, even though it was still quite a modest attire for a king.

“Bard!” she waved, bouncing up and down to catch his attention. Her basket swayed dangerously on her arm.

It must’ve been her lucky day, as he spotted her amongst the other onlookers and motioned for her to approach. Brea knew he was a busy man; she was grateful that he granted her some of his precious time, and didn’t intend to waste it.

“Good morning, Brea.”

From up close she noticed that his new position had brought him a few more grey hairs.

“Morning, Bard.” She sketched a curtsy, but he waved her off.

“No need for such formalities.” He smiled. “How is your aunt?”

Brea grinned back. “She’s well, thank you for asking! Getting used to the house, and the upstairs window gives onto the street, so she can hear the people outside and enjoy some fresh air.”

“That’s good to hear.” He paused, waiting for her to continue, and when she didn’t he started to suspect something. “Tell me, what can I do for you?”

He laughed when he saw her sheepish expression. Their relationship had suffered from Brea’s determination to see Fíli healed, but the arrival of the elves into Dale had made up for Bard’s troubles. The townsfolk had been grateful for the elves’ help, and even though he’d never said it, Bard knew it was the dwarves’ doing.

“I know you, Brea. Whenever you come find me, of late, it’s always for a favor.” He lay a hand on his chest. “You’re wounding my feelings, you know.”

“Really?” She had to smile when she saw his eyes crinkle with mirth. “Well this time it’s different. No favor at all, only asking for some news.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What news would I have that you don’t? Are you interested in our trade agreements with Mirkwood, or perhaps the state of the negotiations with the weavers’ guild of Rohan?” He crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me it’s about dwarves again.”

“It is.” Brea looked at him pleadingly. “I heard you’d been invited to the coronation of the King under the Mountain. Would you tell me about it?”

The mention of the ceremony wiped the amusement off Bard’s face, and he looked at her with something akin to pity. “Brea, I…” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any good news for you.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? Is it Fíli? Is he unwell?” A feeling of dread stirred inside her chest.

Bard now appeared to be uncomfortable. He took her by the arm and drew her away from the crowd, his men protecting their privacy.

“Brea, I know you care about him. I hoped you’d forget, and by the time you learned the truth you wouldn’t suffer…”

She gripped his arm. “Bard? What is it?”

“He’s married, Brea.” Bard watched her with pity in his eyes. “I am sorry. If he promised you anything…”

“He didn’t.”

When she was little, Brea had once dived into the Long Lake, following a game of truth or dare that she’d lost. It had been a glum winter day, and she’d jumped off the pier into the icy water below with a squeal. The murky waters had closed in on her, the cold had knocked the air out of her lungs, and she’d suffocated in the darkness and the silence, unable to see which way to swim.

Brea’s current impression was that she was in the lake again, struggling for breath, the bitter darkness pressing in on her. Bard was talking to her, watching her with compassion, but all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat.

She disentangled herself from him. “Thank you, Bard,” she said in a hollow voice. “Thank you for the news.”

Brea could hear him call after her as she dived back into the crowd, his previous words echoing in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the market. Married. Fíli was married. As she walked, her throat constricted in sadness, the emotions finally catching up with her.

She fought back the tears, understanding how naïve she had been. Fíli would never be hers, and he’d been honorable enough not to make any promises. Kings didn’t marry midwives from a fishermen village. The time they’d shared was an illusion, a stolen moment that never should’ve been. He had a queen, someone who understood her role and knew how to behave accordingly. Someone who came from his world and who would give him heirs.

As soon as her house was in sight Brea picked up her pace. The happiness of the morning had vanished, and all she wished for was to disappear from the face of the earth, at least for a few moments where she could weep without being disturbed and sleep off the shame.

After all, she’d made quite a fool of herself, falling head over heels for someone so far out of her reach.

Wrapped up in her gloomy thoughts, Brea didn’t notice anything amiss until she was halfway through the door of her home, and by then it was too late. She stumbled and almost fell, regaining her balance but dropping her basket to the floor. It thudded on the wooden floor, scattering her vegetables around her.

The remains of a broken chair were the culprit for her fall. The whole room had been ransacked, the scarce furniture upturned, the plates broken on the ground. Brea gasped, ready to call Mildred’s name, when the door slammed shut behind her and a blade slid under her chin.

“Just the one I was looking for,” someone quipped below her right ear. “Don’t scream, don’t run, or I’ll slit your mother’s throat.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: some strong language from this point onward. Please don't read if it bothers you.

Chapter 20

 _“Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?'_  
'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him.”   
George R.R. Martin

oOoOoOo

_November 3 rd, T.A. 2941_

The intruder was a dwarf, and he was wielding her dagger. Or rather Fíli’s dagger, the one he’d given her as a goodbye gift. 

“You must be Brea.” He tilted his head to the side, studying her. “I thought you’d be prettier.” 

“Who are you?” she demanded, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “What have you done with my aunt?” 

“Ah, your aunt.” He raised a hand and motioned for someone to come forward. To Brea’s horror, two more dwarves emerged from the next room, dragging Mildred by the arm. Her aunt was bleeding from a gash on her cheek and one of her eyes was swollen shut. 

“Brea, run!” she croaked, struggling feebly against her captors. One of the dwarves cackled and drove a mailed fist into her stomach. Mildred cried out in pain, doubling over, but the dwarves held her up again. 

“Stop it!” Brea screamed, lunging forward to protect her aunt, but the blade of the dagger halted her. She felt a sting where it cut her skin, and had to balance on the tip of her toes not to slice her own throat. 

“Let this serve as a lesson,” the dwarf beside her continued. “If you resist me, she will suffer. If you scream again, she will die.” 

“I won’t.” Brea couldn’t tear her eyes away from her aunt’s broken, frightened face. “I won’t run, I’ll do whatever you want. Please, just let her go,” she whispered. “She didn’t even see you…” 

He lowered the dagger and drove it into the wood of the cupboard. The blade quivered, the golden carvings gleaming in the sunlight. Mildred wailed in terror, imagining perhaps that it had been Brea’s body he’d pierced. 

“Your hands,” he commanded, uncoiling a rope from his belt. 

Brea obeyed, watching as he tied her wrists together with swift, practiced movements. The rope was tight against her skin, chafing whenever she moved. 

“Kneel.” 

He lay a hand on her shoulder and pushed. Brea yelped when his fingers squeezed the muscles there, eliciting a wave of pain that radiated down to her shoulder. He seemed to enjoy seeing her suffer, tightening his grasp even after her knees had hit the floor. 

He disappeared from her sight, and she believed he would slit her throat, but he gagged her instead. The fabric tasted of mold and rot, and Brea struggled not to vomit. She knew that if she did she’d choke on it, so she concentrated on her breath, inhaling and exhaling evenly to repress the urge to throw up. 

“You’re obedient.” He caressed her cheek with a gloved finger, smirking when she flinched away from his touch. “Maybe that’s what he likes about you.” 

He pulled out a knife and reached out for her right ear. Brea’s eyes widened in fear. He was going to torture her, to cut her into pieces, and there’d be nothing she could do except scream into her gag. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the pain, but all she felt was a tug on her hair. 

“Send this with the letter,” he told someone, “See that he gets it.” 

Brea didn’t have time to ponder about whom he was referring to, as a burlap sack was thrown over her head. She almost fell forward when someone yanked on the rope that bound her, but managed to stumble to her feet instead. 

“Let’s go.” His voice sounded somewhere behind her. Brea heard the door creak open and the sound of a horse’s hooves. “Before someone calls the guards.” 

She followed, unable to look at her aunt’s face one last time and barely making out the contour of the door through the sack. Her shoulder collided with the doorframe and she screeched into the fabric, much to the hilarity of her captors. 

“Toss her in.” 

Someone hauled her up and did as he was told. “She’s fat!” he complained, before throwing her onto a hard, wooden surface that smelled of fish. Brea guessed it to be a cart of some sort. A cloak or a cover was flung over her, blotting out the light completely and muffling the sounds. 

A finger jabbed into her side. “Remember,” the dwarf’s voice said, “If you try to escape or make your presence known, I’ll carve up your aunt from groin to gullet.” 

Brea nodded frantically, tears of despair streaming down her cheeks. Mildred was the only family she had left, Brea loved her like a mother. Her aunt’s beaten, terrified face would haunt her for the rest of her days, no matter how short it promised to be. She would’ve pleaded for mercy if she could, but she suspected that he would hurt Mildred again only to spite her. 

The cart lurched forward, its iron-framed wheels counting out the cobblestones. With every jolt Brea could feel herself slide downwards a little, which meant that they were going down the street, heading out of the city. Her shoulder throbbed, and her neck burned where it’d been cut. She was losing the feeling in her hands, and when she moved her fingers to get the blood flowing, the rope chafed against her skin. 

The only good news was that her saliva had soaked the gag entirely, washing away some of its disgusting taste, and the urge to vomit had subsided. Brea strained her hearing to gather any information she could about their destination or the people who’d taken her. 

She was certain she’d never seen any of the dwarves before, not within Thorin’s company or elsewhere. The one who appeared to be in command kept referring to someone else, someone supposed to know her. Brea wondered if they meant Fíli, and the memory of Bard’s words came back to her. Being called a fool didn’t seem so bad now, in comparison to her current situation. 

The cart slowed down, and from beneath her covers Brea heard a muffled exchange. Her hopes soared. If the patrol at the gates inspected the contents as they were meant to do, she’d be saved. But they were moving again, and she understood that no help would come from the guards. Brea pondered kicking and wriggling to catch their attention, but the image of her aunt’s bruised face dissuaded her. There was no way of knowing whether the dwarves had left someone at their house to make sure she’d keep her word not to run. 

The cobbles had ceased, and the wheels now bounced on an uneven road. The dwarves didn’t speak, and it became harder to distinguish anything that would tell her of their intentions. Brea brought her hands towards her face and tried to ease the gag away from her mouth. She surrendered when she understood that the knot was too tight for her fingers. Instead she tugged on the collar of her dress until she could reach the cut, and pressed the fabric against it, hissing in pain at the sting. 

The journey stretched on endlessly, and if Brea hadn’t been so scared, she might’ve fallen asleep, lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the cart. The number of emotions she’d experienced that morning had exhausted her, and her eyes had begun to close when they suddenly jolted to a halt. 

Brea startled when the covers were removed. Someone hoisted her off the cart and dropped her to the ground, and she cried out in pain when her knee collided with a rock. The sack was yanked off her face and she squinted, but before her eyes could adjust to the daylight, a hand clamped around her face and forced her chin up. 

“You will ride with us, nicely and without any fuss. If you don’t…” 

The dark-haired dwarf was standing before her, towering over her kneeling form. Brea nodded, and he turned away in disgust, wiping his saliva-stained glove on his trousers. Once again she was pulled and pushed, and then lifted to sit atop a scrawny bay. 

They were in the middle of nowhere, no city, building or landmark in sight. A hilly landscape of yellow grass surrounded them, with lichen-covered rocks jutting out of the earth here and there. The Lonely Mountain loomed behind them, but the cloudy weather made it impossible to determine its direction using the sun. Brea shivered in the cold wind that blew across the plain and pulled Fíli’s cloak closer to her body. 

The dark-haired dwarf gave a command in a guttural language she didn’t understand, and the procession moved forward. The dwarves rode ponies, she noticed, kicking them into a gallop, and her mount followed out of instinct. Brea held onto the pommel, her legs jiggling on each side of the horse, her bottom slapping painfully against the saddle. The cloak floated behind her and she was freezing within minutes. 

The dwarves laughed at her predicament, mocking her in their language. Brea tried to ignore their jests, her gaze fixed onward. By now, any accomplice they’d left at her home would’ve left, and Mildred would’ve been able to call for help. Brea had survived the attack on Esgaroth and the battle of Dale. She was determined to live another day if the dwarves let her, and to seize the first chance to escape she’d find. 

oOoOoOo

They rode hard for an hour, or maybe two, according to Brea’s estimations. Her legs were raw and sore by the time the dark-haired dwarf called for a halt, and her stomach was rumbling. 

The dwarves dismounted and tied their ponies to a nearby bush, a short and leafless thing bent by the merciless winds that blew through the land. Brea tried to dismount, swinging one leg over the rump of her horse, but her injured knee gave way under her weight, and she crumpled to the ground. 

The dwarves guffawed. One of them said something that made the others grin, and then pointed towards her. “Fat,” he said. 

Brea glowered at him but dared not attempt a reply. She was at their mercy, helpless and weak. If she was to escape, she’d have to bide her time. 

Their leader barked out orders and the dwarves produced rations from inside their coats and pockets, food wrapped in cloth that made Brea’s mouth water despite the taste of mold that still lingered on her tongue. The dark-haired dwarf marched towards her and untied her gag, in his usual, none-too-gentle manner. He tore at the knots, tearing out her hair in the process, until the soaked piece of fabric fell into her lap. 

“Drink,” he said, thrusting a flask into her hands. 

Brea fumbled to seize it and drank avidly, the cool water a relief for her tender lips and her empty stomach. Once she was done she gave him back his gourd, watching in envy as the others devoured their meal. 

They wore an armor with a crest she didn’t recognize, something akin to a tusked beast’s head, red on black. The emblem was scratched and dented, but still visible on the dull iron plate. Like most dwarves she’d met, they wore their beards braided, opting for a net of facial hair held in place by silver beads. Their leader differed little from his men in appearance, except for his armor, which was more intricately designed, and the golden tooth that showed when he smiled. 

When they were done eating, the dwarves rose and untied their ponies, ushering Brea towards her horse. Their leader eyed her before declaring that she didn’t need to be gagged again. 

“If you scream, I cut out your tongue.” 

“I won’t.” 

At least now she could breathe normally, and every gulp of cold air was a relief. The blisters that had formed during the first part of their journey burst as soon as they set into motion again, and Brea almost cried from the pain. Her only consolation was that at least now they walked instead of galloping. 

The yellowish meadow around them swayed in the wind, dry and brittle. The only vegetation that grew in this part of the land was short and strong, providing no shelter from the icy gusts that blew from the west. The path they trudged on was narrow and rocky, barely visible amongst the tufts of grass, winding between the outcrops of grey stone.

Brea wondered where they were taking her. Of course, she had better sense than to ask, as she took the leader’s threat about tongue cutting very seriously. The other question, which she’d refused to reflect on so far, was what they’d do to her once they arrived.

They crested a stony edge and the Long Lake unraveled before them, from its northernmost part until the south, where it disappeared in the low clouds that hung above the water. The sullen cry of the seagulls could be heard from up above as the birds circled the shore, looking for crabs.

The path they took slowly descended towards the beach. Tall, white cliffs edged the lake in this part of the coast, and Brea wondered whether they’d built themselves a lair in one of the caves nearby. It was as likely as any another option, so she watched for crevices in the stone that could harbor the dwarves’ hideaway.

As soon as they reached the shore, the leader called out in his tongue, and a similar cry echoed from their left. Brea understood that she’d been right: there was a small cave hidden in one of the cracks that pierced the cliff, and a fourth dwarf emerged from the opening. He wore the same armor as the other three, and his hair was the same shade as Agnessa’s. His beard was braided as well, a cascade of intricate coils tipped with metallic spikes.

The black-haired dwarf exchanged a few words with the newcomer, nodding in her direction and pointing towards the cave. Brea’s guts twisted in dread when she noticed the cruel smile that twisted his features whenever he looked at her. If he’d wanted to rape her at sword’s point he could’ve done it before, in any of the lost places they’d crossed during their journey.

Such a delay could only mean that his plans involved something much more gruesome.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

_“The prince is never going to come. Everyone knows that; and maybe sleeping beauty's dead.”  
Anne Rice_

oOoOoOo

_November 3 rd, T.A. 2941_

Fíli glowered at the letter, willing it to disappear, and the news that it announced to be undone. The words had been written in khuzdul, crude and concise. 

_I have your wife._

_Her life or the throne: your choice._

_You have two days to abdicate._

_Nárin_

Enclosed was a lock of black hair that Fíli recognized as belonging to Brea. The bastard had even signed the message, unafraid of Fíli’s retaliation, taunting him with the knowledge that there was little he could do within the allotted time to save her. 

Kíli paced in front of the throne, his jaw set and eyes distant, imagining the ways in which he wanted to see Nárin die. “I should’ve killed that son of a goblin,” his brother muttered, as on cue.

His frustration only fueled Fíli’s own anger, which wasn’t helping him to come up with any semblance of a plan. It was his level-headedness that Brea needed now, not his hatred, but his emotions were gaining the upper hand over reason.

Fíli had blanched when he’d first read the letter, the words cutting into his heart like knives. His dismay soon turned into fury and he’d ordered the messenger to be seized, searched and detained, threatening him with a gruesome death if he didn’t speak. Fíli soon discovered there was little the man could tell them, except that he’d been paid to find Brea’s house and then deliver the missive into Fíli’s own hands. Nárin had done the rest. The lock of hair was to be the messenger’s safe-conduct out of the mountain, and he claimed that Nárin would kill Brea if he didn’t return.

If Kíli’s report of their adventure was to be believed, it was unlike Nárin to care about a human’s life. The only reason he’d enclosed a proof of Brea’s abduction was to torment Fíli with the knowledge that she was out of reach, and within the power of a man who hated him.

Balin took the letter from his hand and read it over again, as if searching for a hidden meaning behind the words. “I’m sorry, lad.” He looked stricken, and Fíli suspected that he carried the guilt of what had happened, having urged Fíli to announce his betrothal.

Yet it was not him that Fíli blamed, but himself. He should’ve followed his instinct, which told him to seek Brea out again and tell her how he felt. Instead he’d bowed to the protocols of the court and trusted those who had advised caution, chafing against the wait but tarrying all the same. Two weeks had flown by in a heartbeat, and suddenly he was sitting on the throne, the crown of Durin on his brow. The moment had put an end to over a year-long quest, but Fíli had felt little joy at the thought. Thorin was dead, Bilbo gone, Brea absent. Too much of what he’d loved and valued had been lost in the process.

If he’d only listened to himself, none of this would’ve happened.

“We must do something!” Kíli exploded, looking at both of them in turn. “We can’t leave her in the hands of that asshole!”

“We won’t.” Fíli growled. “I won’t. But we have to find her first.”

According to Bofur, who’d stood guard above the gates that day, the messenger had come up the road to Dale, riding an underfed mare and looking very pleased with himself. A thorough search of his pockets had turned out to be of little interest, save for a fat purse full of gold. Fíli had recognized the coins immediately as they bore the image of Thrór, his grandfather and previous king of Erebor. The fact that Brea’s abduction had been paid with a fragment of his own treasury made Fíli wish he’d chosen to kill Nárin two weeks ago.

“I say we cut up that sniveling fool and find our answers inside his guts if need be,” Dwalin spoke up, crossing his arms on his chest.

Balin shook his head. “He doesn’t know anything. Nori’d been at him for hours, and he’s been singing the same song over and over again.”

Fíli hated to admit that Nárin had been clever in his scheme, hiring a man stupid enough not to ask any questions before carrying a letter that could mean his death. The clues he’d left behind were dismal, but that wouldn’t stop Fíli from finding him.

If the bastard thought he’d break and submit, he was sadly mistaken.

“So what’s the plan?” Kíli turned towards him. “While we stand here and wait, he could be…”

“Brother, enough.” Fíli jumped to his feet. “I know all this. Don’t you think I care?” he snapped, regretting his outburst when he saw his brother flinch.

He seethed when he imagined how the bastard would treat Brea, hurting her for his own pleasure and toying with her hope to be rescued. The many ways in which he could torture and humiliate her made him sick to the stomach. He could almost hear her scream and call out his name, begging Nárin to stop.

Fíli needed answers, a lead, anything that would take his mind off the horrors Brea was facing, and maintain the hope that he’d bring her back safe and sound. But to get them he’d have to swallow his pride and ask for help.

“Where are you going?”

Kíli ran after him as he stalked out of the throne room, Dwalin on his tail.

“Call Nori and Bofur,” Fíli commanded, “Tell them to armor up. We’re heading to Dale.”

oOoOoOo

The guards at the gates raised the alarm as soon as the thundering of the rams’ hooves rolled down the valley. Fíli had spurred his mount mercilessly, riding fast with his best fighters at his side. He was determined to barrel through whatever opposition they would find, climbing up the hill until he reached the palace, but Bard had spared him the trouble. They found him standing in the front of an armed party, his sword sheathed but his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“Bard,” Fíli nodded as he reined up his mount before the gates.

“Fíli.” The king of Dale acknowledged his greeting. “What brings you to Dale?” He gave them a cursory glance. “You come armed and unannounced. This isn’t a courtesy visit, I take it?”

Fíli scowled. “Now’s not the time for a lesson in manners. I need your help.”

It was Bard’s turn to appear displeased. “I remember helping a group of dwarves but one month ago,” he retorted, “And look what it brought us.”

“It brought you a crown,” Dwalin jeered from atop his own ram.

Fíli raised a hand, calling for silence. The endless jibes and squabbles wore him out, and what was worse, wasted precious time. His mount sensed his frustration and stamped its feet impatiently. Fíli gave a sharp tug on the reins in return.

“Do you know a man by the name of Rurik?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but the mere mention of the name raised his hackles. “Tall, brown eyes, missing teeth?”

“That describes half the men in Laketown,” Bard stated, shrugging. “Surely you haven’t come all this way to inquire of his wellbeing?” As he said that, one of the guards stepped forward to mutter something into his ear.

Bard raised an eyebrow. “My men say he’s well-known to them,” he reported, “A drunkard and a gambler.” He crossed his arms. “What’s your business with him? Did he take your gold?”

“He took my wife.” Fíli glowered at the men who’d started to smile, ready to turn his words into a joke. “He helped abduct her, and for that he has paid. But had accomplices, someone who can tell us where they took her.”

“Your wife?” Bard repeated in disbelief. “They took your queen? From Erebor?” He glanced at the heavily armed, sullen party. “What kind of royal guard would let that happen?”

The words rang like an accusation, and rightly so. After all, Bard was saying aloud what Fíli had been beating himself up about ever since he’d laid his eyes on that letter. What kind of king, what kind of husband or man would leave his beloved alone for so long, unprotected and without a word of news?

“You tell me,” he snapped, his ire at himself stronger than his patience. “Where was your guard when Brea was taken, Bard? Where were your men?”

oOoOoOo

“I cannot believe this.”

Bard paced in front of the hearth, stopping from time to time to glance at him and shake his head. “I cannot believe you didn’t inform her. By the Gods, I was the one who had to tell her you were married!” he cried out, throwing his hands up in outrage. “And I thought it was with another!”

Fíli bore his contempt in silence. There wasn’t a word in what Bard had said that wasn’t true or justified.

He thanked Sigrid with a nod of his head when she brought them dinner and drink, but didn’t touch the wine or the food, his stomach tied with worry. The hours had trickled by since he’d gotten the letter, and the first day was nearing its end.

“Are you going to help me, or no?”

Bard rested his hands against the mantle, staring into the fire. “My men are scouring the local taverns as we speak,” he replied in a tired voice. “If Rurik had any accomplices, they will find them and bring them here.”

He looked back at Fíli. “You’ve done her a great disservice,” he said, “A poor way to replay the lengths she’s gone to save your life.”

Fíli sensed that Bard’s consternation went beyond a king’s worry for the wellbeing of one of his subjects, or a man for his neighbor. It was a sentiment of another nature, one that Fíli couldn’t identify but that stirred in his heart the same jealousy he’d felt when he’d imagined Brea belonging to another. Had she and Bard shared something, before or after Fíli had met her? Had those feelings died a natural death, or were the flames still being kindled?

He narrowed his eyes. “Who is she to you?”

From the expression on Bard’s face, he thought the man would laugh at him, telling him perhaps to mind his own business as he was wont to do. But Bard seemed to consider his question with something close to pity in his eyes.

“I care for Brea greatly,” he replied, “But you’ve nothing to fear from me. Not after…”

Bard fell silent and went to pour himself a glass of wine, offering one to Fíli wordlessly, but he declined with a shake of his head.

“My wife died while giving birth to Tilda,” Bard uttered. “Brea was there when it happened. I was not.” He swallowed the wine in a single gulp. “She was there to hear Iona’s last words, she pulled my daughter from her womb. I could never…” He glanced at Fíli again. “Did she tell you what happened to her husband?”

“What do you know?” Fíli leaned forward in his chair, indicating that Bard had his full attention.

The man turned away, his face towards the flames. Fíli could see his hesitation in the way he fingered the empty goblet in his hand.

“Ivar was a bargeman, like me before. Younger, hungrier, drunk on the fire and recklessness of youth. Maybe that’s what drew Brea to him…” He sighed. “I remember the day like yesterday. The lake was white with ice, and the coldest winds blew from the north. When the weather’s like that, it’s the ice that’s stirring your barge for you. Going out that day was a folly, I’d told him as much.”

Bard went to set the cup back onto the table. He paused when he walked past Fíli’s chair.

“If you care about her, remember this. She’s lost her first husband to foolhardiness. Ivar cared more about what he could make that day than about her feelings. Be wise and gentle, if you can.”

They shared a look of understanding.

“I am not my uncle.” Fíli propped his forearms on his thighs. “I intend to find her and bring her back.” He stared into the fire, the smoldering cinders reminding him of the golden specks in Brea’s eyes. “And if she’ll have me then...”

The door opened before he could finish his sentence. Two of Bard’s guards entered, dragging by the arms a man of such a crummy and disreputable appearance that he and Rurik could’ve passed for brothers. The man’s face showed signs of a failed attempt to resist his capture.

“Let me go!” he screeched, struggling as they pulled him before Bard. “I ain’t done nothing wrong!” He peered around him, looking for a way to escape.

“This one’s Tall Tom,” one of Bard’s men announced. “A gambler – a bad one at that – and a thief.” He gave the man a shove. “Tell their Majesties what you’ve heard.”

Tom quivered and scratched his unkempt beard with a black-nailed hand. “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” he repeated, concentrating on his feet.

The guard rolled his eyes. “We found him in the Barrel, boasting of the gold he got from some dwarves.” He reached into his pocket to produce a couple of the same coins that Rurik had carried in his purse.

Fíli’s temper flared. “Where did you get these?” he demanded, reaching up to seize the man’s filthy tunic. The man’s rotten teeth chattered as he shook him. “Who gave them to you?”

“He said he sold them his boat,” the second guard piped up. “The one he used for fishing, down by the lake.”

Fíli and Bard exchanged a look. There was only one reason why the captors would’ve needed a boat, and only one place they could be hoping to reach.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: some more adult themes and implications ahead, and more swearing, because, well, dwarves.

Chapter 22

_“Hope is necessary in every condition. The miseries of poverty, sickness and captivity would, without this comfort, be insupportable.”_

_William Samuel Johnson_

oOoOoOo

_November 4 th, T.A. 2941_

She tried to resist for as long as she could, but there had come a point where Brea couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“I have to go,” she whispered, trying to sound meek and obedient so that her captors would be merciful. The dark-haired dwarf glanced at her in annoyance and she nodded towards the opening of the cave. “I have to go outside.” 

He raised an eyebrow, challenging her to elaborate. Her cheeks heated up in embarrassment. “I have to pee,” she mumbled. 

He seemed to consider it and for a moment she thought he’d refuse. But then he barked out an order to one of his men, who cursed. His displeasure at being disturbed in his meal was plainly written on his face, but even he didn’t dare disobey the leader. He tugged on the robe that bound her wrists and headed outside. 

Night had long since fallen on the Long Lake and its surroundings, the gentle lapping of the water on the pebbles the only sound that reached the shore. Brea stumbled in the darkness, tears running down her face with every movement that stretched or brushed the skin inside her legs. The dwarf walked briskly, indifferent to her suffering. Once they’d gone far enough from the cave for his liking, he barked out an order, watching her expectantly. 

“I don’t understand,” she told him, and he cursed some more. 

“Piss.” He pointed to the ground. 

Brea blanched. “Here?” She looked around, but there was nothing nearby to hide behind. 

He shrugged and waited a few seconds before tugging on the rope again, as if to head back. 

“Wait!” 

Brea squatted, gritting her teeth at the wave of burning pain that raced along her flayed thighs. She arranged her skirts so that he wouldn’t see anything, even if it meant soiling them. He smirked and she turned away, hiding the intensity of her hatred under a mask of shame. 

When she was done, she rose, still refusing to meet his eyes. Had she been stronger and bolder, she would’ve tried to strangle him with the rope and escape, but there was nowhere to run in the surrounding darkness. 

Once they were back inside the cave, the dwarf regaled the others with the story of her humiliation, earning her sniggers and lewd looks that made her feel dirtier than she already was. Brea had never felt more helpless. Even when she was fighting to save Fíli’s life, there’d always been something she could attempt, another plan she could try. Now she was at the dwarves’ mercy, to be toyed with and killed when she’d served their purpose. 

“Eat.” 

A small package wrapped in linen landed in her lap. The dark-haired dwarf took no part in his men’s amusement, but he didn’t discourage it either. 

He nodded towards the food. “That’s all until tomorrow.” 

Brea watched him leave before unwrapping the cloth, revealing two pieces of a flat, flaky bread and a slice of hard cheese. She nibbled on her dinner, making it last as long as possible, enjoying the feeling of a filled stomach. She pocketed the cloth, in case it could serve her later, and curled up in a ball under Fíli’s cloak. 

The dark-haired dwarf had mentioned a tomorrow, which meant that she’d live to see it. All Brea needed was a night of sleep to regain her strength, in case the chance she was hoping for arose. 

oOoOoOo

The morning found her as the night had, shivering on the sandy ground of the cave before the dying fire. The clatter of the dwarves’ armor woke her up, and it took Brea a moment to realize where she was and to remember why her entire body ached. 

“Get up,” the leader’s gruff voice barked. 

He was standing above her with his flask in his hand. “Drink.” 

He seldom spoke in more than a word or two, Brea realized, unless it was to threaten someone. She caught the flask clumsily, her hands still half-asleep because of the rope that bound her wrists, and drank. She knew she’d have to beg for a walk outside again, but she was too thirsty to care. 

Brea’s suspicions were raised when the dwarves unpacked what she counted to be the third set of rations. She’d been wondering why they had chosen to abduct her, of all people, despite her lack of wealth or connections. Their expedition seemed too well prepared to be a random act of felony, including the change of transportation and the hideout. Brea had been targeted for a reason, one she had yet to understand, but it gave her some hope about her chances of survival. 

“Why am I here?” she demanded, glaring at the dark-haired dwarf. 

He’d warned her not to scream so Brea made a point of keeping her voice even, but she couldn’t keep her outrage from creeping into it.

He turned around, annoyed by her outburst. 

“Who are you? Why did you take me?” she insisted, looking him in the eye. “There must be a reason. Is it because…” 

His hand collided with her cheek as he slapped her. Brea reeled backwards and her head hit the ground. It wasn’t enough to knock her out, but her vision blackened and her ears rang. Her lower lip burst open under his strike, spraying her with her own blood. 

The dwarf watched her with an impassible face, as if he hadn’t moved at all. 

“Remember my words,” he drawled. “Next time I will cut out your tongue.” 

Brea whimpered and recoiled, searching her pocket frantically for the piece cloth she’d saved. Her whole jaw throbbed, from her cheekbone to the chin, and her teeth were tingling. She tested each of them with her tongue, relieved when none moved under her touch. The cloth imbibed with blood as soon as she pressed it against her lip. 

She wiped her tears with her sleeve, feeling cold and lonely and afraid. She missed her home, her true home back in Laketown, with its crooked windows and the worn-out carpets on the floor. Her favorite books had perished in the fire, along with her childhood toys, but she missed them all the same. And above all she yearned for her aunt’s embrace, to bask again in the love she’d taken for granted. 

After that, when they dragged her out of the cave and towards the lake, Brea offered no resistance. She trudged forward, as obedient as they wanted her, focused solely on the pebbles rolling under her feet and the bits of driftwood that water had polished white as bone. The shore was a lonely place, grey and sullen, the gulls’ cries above the only sign of life for as far as the eye could see. Even the dwarves were gloomy this morning, their bawdy cheer of yesterday forgotten. 

Brea dreaded to ride again while her legs were still sore, resigning herself to another long, dreary day. However, one of the dwarves untied the ponies and her bay, swatting them on the rump to send them galloping along the beach. 

Before she could ponder on such a waste, they led her to a pile of debris that lay further down the waterline. As they approached, she understood that what passed for the remains of a wreck from afar was in fact a small boat, skillfully hidden under rotten planks and torn sails. Two of the dwarves uncovered the ketch and pushed it into the lake before jumping inside. 

Their leader took over the rope that bound her and jerked on it, forcing her to stumble into the icy water. His cruel smile returned when he heard her hiss in pain, a sign that his earlier bout of violence had helped improve his mood. He leaned over the gunwale and seized her chin, forcing her to look at him. 

“I like you better when you’re bleeding.”

They pushed away from the shore, rowing in powerful strokes until the cave and the debris were a small speck upon the white of the cliffs. Brea sat on the front bench, her back towards their destination; she hadn’t chosen the spot, obeying meekly when the dark-haired dwarf had pointed her to sit. She could spot the Lonely Mountain peering over the jagged edge of the hill, wrapped in clouds of snow. Somewhere beyond those rocks lay Dale, where Mildred would’ve alerted the guards by now. Brea trusted Bard to try and find her, even if he’d never think to look so far away. 

She was contemplating her chances to be rescued when the dwarf who held the rope nudged his comrade, pointing towards something behind her. Brea turned around, the muscles in her neck straining painfully as she did so. 

Far away, above the expanse of silvery water that reflected the dull autumn sun, a black carcass reached its sharp fingers into the sky. All life had long since deserted it, but no birds of prey circled the remains. Its bones were made of wood and its flesh had long since burned away, leaving nothing for the scavengers. Only one tower still stood, dark against the grey sky, refusing to bow its head and join its murky grave. 

The dwarves were taking her back to Esgaroth. 

oOoOoOo

The dwarves docked at one of the remaining piers, tying the boat to a blackened pillar before ushering her onto the walkway. The wood was slippery beneath her feet and the planks had been thinned by the fire. Brea got a glimpse of the dark, deep water between them as she walked.

She mused that should the pier give way under her weight, she’d sink to the bottom of the lake, unable to swim tied up as she was. It could be a small mercy in her present situation, as she’d heard that death by drowning was as painless as one could hope. It’s the cold that scared her; the water around the dock was crusted with ice.

The dwarf leader considered their surroundings, looking for a suitable place to hide in. Smaug’s fire had left him with but a few options: the city hall, the records or the bell tower. The other buildings that still stood showed increasing stages of decrepitude, some of them half-sunk and others toppling over into the lake.

Emptied of its inhabitants, the town had gained a life of its own. The houses and bridges creaked without wind, moving along with the currents beneath the pilings and beams that held them together. The bell tower swayed, as if waving to its sister city up in the north.

Maybe it was the movement that dissuaded the dwarf, or a dislike of heights, but he pointed towards the records’ building, giving his instructions in a harsh, determined voice.

The records used to be one of Brea’s favorite places when she was little. The man who kept them, Artem, was a kindly fellow with a love for stories and books. He’d made a habit of sharing the tales of old, especially those that sounded the most heroic or magical, to the children of Laketown who stopped by, teaching those who wanted – and could – to read. Brea had been one of them, as her aunt had relied on Artem to keep an eye on her niece while she was working. Brea didn’t remember her father, but Artem and his wife Zina were the closest she’d had to grandparents.

“Make sure she doesn’t escape.”

The cold voice pulled her out of her reverie. The image of the records of her childhood, warm and encumbered with books, tapestries and other pieces of lore, disappeared in favor of a drafty hall where piles of ash attested to what had happened to the archives.

Brea trembled when one of the dwarves pulled out a knife and reached out towards her hands. He sliced through the rope, but her joy at having her hands free again was short-lived.

“Stand,” he commanded, pointing towards the remains of a pillar that jutted from the ground like a broken rib.

When he found she wasn’t fast enough in obeying, he dragged by the wrist, the knife still bare in his other hand. The flooring creaked ominously under their combined weight. As he tied her against the wooden beam, the rope so tight it almost cut off her blood, Brea knew that her plans to escape were doomed. And if the building collapsed, she’d sink right to the bottom, buried in the place she used to love.

“He won’t be coming to save you.”

The leader was eyeing her with a mix of contempt and satisfaction, his thumbs hooked into his belt. “Your king. But if he does come, I’ll kill him, and then I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Brea stared at him in dismay. “Bard’s got no reason to come for me,” she breathed out, her voice bitter, aware of how dismal her chances of survival were. “I mean nothing to him.”

The dwarf threw his head back and laughed. “You have no idea, then.” He grinned. “This should prove interesting.”


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

_“Not by prayers alone will a captive be freed, but by another man’s prayers matched by his deeds.”  
John Krame _

oOoOoOo

_November 5 th, T.A. 2941_

The night fell upon the shore of the Long Lake, slowly and then all at once, as if the sun had hesitated to slide behind the hills, wondering whether it would be able to come back tomorrow. From his position on the beach, Fíli felt much the same, uncertain of what morning would bring him. He crouched behind a rotting log, squinting in the dimming light, trying to make out the contours of the abandoned town.

Beside him, Kíli was checking his weapons for the third time, keeping his hands busy to get his mind off the endless wait and the setting chill. They’d built no fires to remain unseen by Nárin and his men, and Fíli found himself regretting Bilbo’s presence and his ability to pass unnoticed in the most dangerous situations. Such a talent would’ve been of use to him now, but the hobbit had chosen to leave after Thorin’s death, returning to his home in the Shire.

“Do you think she’s there?” Kíli asked quietly, his eyes on the dark silhouette upon the lake.

“She’s there,” Fíli said through clenched teeth. She must be, or he’ll have failed her, something that he wasn’t sure he could live with.

The shore was as they’d left it, a little less than a month ago, when they’d sailed for the Lonely Mountain to join their uncle in his quest. Broken boats and various debris that the lake had spat out encumbered the beach, hiding them from view. Only a few steps from here, Fíli had bid Brea goodbye for the first time, not knowing whether he’d see her again. And only a few miles from here, he’d met her for the first time, at the door of Bard’s house. It seemed somehow fitting that their reunion should happen there as well.

Bard crept beside them. “We have to wait for the mists to rise,” he announced, surveying the shore. “Without their cover, night or no, we’re bound to be spotted from afar.”

Fíli nodded and sat down, his back against the log. He pulled the dagger from his pocket and weighed it in his hand. It was the weapon he’d given Brea when he left Dale, intending to return soon. Nárin had left it at her house when he’d taken her, another taunt that Fíli would make him pay for.

Nori and Dwalin blew on their hands for warmth as the evening advanced and the temperatures plummeted, their breaths fogging the air. They were still grumbling about his earlier decision. Fíli was loath to leave them behind, but Bard had been adamant.

“The boat’s too small for us all,” he’d argued.

“Then we take a bigger boat,” Dwalin had shrugged, but the former bargeman shook his head.

“A bigger boat needs more strength to row,” he’d said, “And unless you want to tire out your arms before you’ve even unsheathed your weapons, be my guest. Besides, bigger means noisier as well. It would not serve to announce our presence as soon as we’ve left shore.”

Fíli’s decision had ended the conversation, but he knew that both his men were sore about it. He’d chosen Kíli to accompany them to the remains of Laketown, trusting him to do his bidding when the time came. As much as he wanted to be optimistic about their chances of success, Thorin’s death and the recent events had taught him that the most careful plans could go awry.

He sheathed the dagger and lay a hand on his brother’s arm to get his attention. “When we’re out there,” he muttered so that no-one would overhear, “If you have a choice between me or Brea, I want you to get her out of there.”

Kíli’s brow furrowed in rebellion. “No,” his brother started, “I won’t leave you…”

“If it comes to it, you must save her. I won’t live with her death on my conscience.” He tightened his grip on Kíli’s arm to emphasize his words. “If I have to command it as your king, I will. But I’d rather you made this promise as my brother.”

Kíli scowled. “It won’t come to that,” he grunted, laying his hand over Fíli’s own. “We’ll get her back, so you can have many dwarfling babies together,” he quipped in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Do I have your word?”

Fíli met his brother’s eyes in the surrounding darkness. Kíli’s face was sullen when he nodded, turning away to hide his frustration.

“I promise,” he whispered.

oOoOoOo

The ketch slipped silently on the stillness of the lake, sliding through the patches of ice that covered the surface. The bigger chunks clunked softly against the bow where it split the water, but the noise was lost in the crackling of the ice all around them. The fog stifled the sounds, as Bard had promised, and blanketed the distant town in a white, silky shroud. The former bargeman took care to row without a splash, maneuvering the skiff towards the pilings that lay ahead.

Every stroke brought Fíli closer to his beloved and to his vengeance, but he knew that he may not have both. When the time came, he’d have to choose between killing Nárin, to make sure he would never hurt Brea again, or rescuing the woman he cared for. Only if Kíli stayed true to his word would he be able to both save and avenge her.

The closer they got to Esgaroth, the quicker his pulse raced in his veins. There was a strong chance they’d be outnumbered, or that they came too late. But should they succeed… Oh how sweet that would be, to hold her close again, and to hope that she may yet forgive him! Fíli had heard other men swear to die for one last look upon their sweetheart’s face or one last kiss from her lips. He hoped to live and to have more than one of both, for as long as Brea would have him.

As he’d never gotten the chance to tell Bard, in the event they succeeded, Fíli intended to beg Brea’s forgiveness for his behavior. A king must be honorable, and to Fíli, that meant recognizing his mistakes when the time came. He was not so proud as to ignore what his faults were, and not so stupid as not to learn from them.

The half-sunken town was getting closer, looming ahead between shreds of mist. In the darkness of the night Fíli could make out the silhouette of a lone tower that still stood proudly above the water, surrounded by a few remaining buildings that hadn’t yet fallen into the lake. There was no way of knowing where Nárin was holding Brea, and he had no clear plan for determining her location. Luck would be on his side, he prayed, and would show him the way.

His thoughts strayed back to the multitude of futures that could stem from tonight’s actions. Fíli chose to dwell on the brightest one, persuading himself that he still had a fair chance at happiness. His careful planning for the contrary didn’t discourage wishful thinking, and Fíli drew his strength from the hope it nourished in his heart.

Truth was, he’d often thought of their future together during the last two weeks, unlike what his actions could’ve led Brea to believe. He’d found himself examining his kingdom with another eye, wondering whether she’d feel at home there. Though the exterior of the mountain reflected little of Smaug’s passage, inside, Erebor lay in ruins, and much of its former glory had been lost. It would take time to restore the halls and chambers to their previous use, but Fíli was determined to make a priority of those repairs that would most please his wife. 

There had been healing rooms during Thrór’s time as king, which stood long since abandoned. Dáin hadn’t made use of the rooms, but Brea might. They were spacious and well-lit, and could be decorated to her taste. Fíli knew he made an unfitting suitor and an unforgivable husband, ignorant of much about her, including the simplest things like her favorite colors, but he was determined to correct those deficiencies as soon as possible.

In front of him, Bard raised a finger to his lips, warning them to keep quiet. They neared a dock, and he jumped on the pier as soon as the gunwale brushed against the piling to tie up the ketch. He gestured to the neighboring wharf where another small boat was docked, a sign of someone else’s presence in the seemingly empty place.

That was the only good news, however. The boardwalk was noisy and frail beneath their feet, and Fíli feared they’d sink right through it with every step. One resounding creak echoed in the darkness and he froze, his heart hammering in his chest. Fortunately for them, the whole town swayed and groaned, leaving a chance that their arrival had remained unnoticed.

Bard took the lead, bending as he crept along the pier. Fíli and his brother followed, tiptoeing to the best of their abilities considering their weight in armor. The king of Dale led them to a crossroads, where several walkways diverged, leading to the former districts of the city.

Fíli swore. Not a single sound could be heard except for the agony of the sinking town, and no light shone to indicate where Nárin and his henchmen had taken Brea. He had no desire to search every building that still stood for fear of losing precious time and the element of surprise that could ensure their victory.

A door creaked somewhere to their right, and a faint orange light reflected on the wooden walls.

“I have to take a piss,” a hoarse voice announced in khuzdul. Heavy steps thundered down the boardwalk.

Even though the door closed as soon as the dwarf had exited, Fíli had plenty of time to spot the building where Nárin had hid. Tall and narrow, with a balustrade that ran along the façade of the upper floor, it leaned precariously into the canal.

He mentioned for the others to follow, the hilt of Brea’s dagger warm in his hand.

The dwarf was standing at the edge of the walkway, his back turned towards them. He was making water, oblivious to their presence. Fíli’s honor commanded him not to kill an unarmed foe, but Nárin’s henchmen held a special place in his heart, right below their leader. He couldn’t risk the littlest squeak to escape the man’s lips, lest he alerted the others about their presence. Still, the blood would be on his hands, and none other’s.

He snuck towards the dwarf and grabbed his braided hair, yanking his head backwards. The trusty blade slid across his throat in a wet whisper. A gurgle escaped the man’s lips as his knees buckled beneath him. Fíli let him slide down into the black water below the pier; the body thudded against a pillar, somewhere under his feet.

“Follow me,” he commanded, wiping the blade on his coat.

Bard caught him by the sleeve. “We should wait until they send someone to look for him,” he muttered, glancing to the building. “We can pick them out one by one.”

“We’ve waited enough,” Fíli snapped.

His blood ran hot with excitement and anger, his heart pounded fast and strong under his skin. He could see that his brother felt the same. Kíli’s mouth was drawn in a tight line, his bow at the ready. As often before a fight he was shifting his weight from one foot to another, as if preparing to evade a blow.

“It’s my fault if Brea is here, and everything she’s had to endure. I’ll not leave her alone with that whoreson a minute longer.”

Fíli nodded at Kíli, ignoring Bard’s disapproval. He crept towards the door and drew his sword. “The bastard dies tonight,” he whispered and kicked the door open.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

_“I just want one person I can rescue and I want one person who needs me. Who can't live without me. I want to be a hero, but not just one time.”  
Chuck Palahniuk_

oOoOoOo

_November 6 th, T.A. 2941_

The dark-haired dwarf was getting bored. It showed in the brusqueness of his movements, in his increasing impatience with his men, and in the way he looked at Brea. His calculating stare was making her skin crawl and her pulse accelerate in fear. A cat might look just this way upon a mouse it’s cornered, contemplating how to best devour it slowly and get enjoyment from its attempts to flee.

She trembled when he pushed himself to his feet from the lone, rickety chair in the corner of the room, and stalked towards her.

“That has to hurt.”

He made a show of examining her split lip, his gloved hand cold against her skin. Brea flinched under his touch, frightened of what he’d do to her next. There was no predicting his behavior, as he could be merciless and cruel without even a twitch of his face.

“Does it?” He caught her chin between his fingers, giving it a small shake. “Does it hurt?”

Brea nodded, tears of fear rising in her eyes. Her stomach lurched and her knees wobbled under his gaze.

“Good. You’ve learnt your lesson, then.”

He released her before pushing a lock of hair out of her face. His gestures could’ve passed for tender had Brea not known how malicious he really was. She looked down on him, taller than he was by over a head, but he frightened her more than anyone else she’d ever met.

“Tell me, have you pondered on why you’re here?”

She shook her head mutely. A tear ran down her cheek before trickling down her neck, and he caught it on his finger. Brea couldn’t recoil further, tied as she was against the pillar, so she had to bear his caress.

“Now, now. You can’t be completely dumb, or he wouldn’t have taken an interest in you.” He paused, pretending to think. “Or maybe that’s what he likes? A stupid cunt he can take as he pleases, and who won’t say no?” His features twisted in anger when she didn’t respond. “Answer me!” he barked out and Brea whimpered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she gasped, closing her eyes when he moved towards her. She was certain he’d hit her again, and her whole body tensed, anticipating the pain. “Please, I don’t know anything, I don’t understand!”

One of the dwarves cackled at her cries. He bleated, mimicking her distress, and headed to the door. His last words were drowned out by the others’ hoots of laughter. They were watching her with interest, shoving each other with their elbows and commenting in their language.

“So you mean to tell me,” the dark-haired dwarf said in a dangerously low voice, “That you have no idea that the King under the Mountain himself fancies you?”

“F-Fíli?” she stuttered in confusion and shook her head again. “You’re mistaken, I… There’s…” Her guts twisted in terror when he advanced upon her.

“Are you saying that I’m wrong?”

His voice had dropped to the threshold of her hearing, so she had to strain her ears to distinguish his words. He reached to his belt and she heard the metallic sound of a knife being unsheathed. The blade passed before her eyes as he showed it to her, and Brea saw her own anguished face in the reflection. The edge glimmered in the light of the torches.

“Are you calling me a liar?” He whispered, smiling. “How ungrateful... After everything I’ve done for you.” He turned towards his men. “Gentlemen, looks like you’ll be having some fun tonight after all.”

Brea squeezed her eyes shut, her legs giving out beneath her. Only the rope that tied her to the pillar kept her standing. The blade was icy on her collarbone, the promise of a deep, bitter bite, but the suffering she expected never came.

“Where’s Tháin?”

His voice cracked like a whip, a stark contrast to the sugary tone he’d been using moments before. Startled, Brea opened her eyes to see the dark-haired dwarf leap to her right side, his gaze fixed upon the door of the hall. The knife circled her neck and came to rest in the fold between her chin and her throat. Brea believed she’d cut herself if she took another breath.

The other dwarves jumped to their feet as the door flew open and someone barged in. Brea saw the flash of a sword that parried a blow, and heard the clank of steel against steel. A dwarf dropped dead, an arrow protruding from a socket. One of the attackers swung his blade, his blond hair gleaming in the light of the flames.

“Fíli!”

Brea’s heart soared with a mix of happiness at seeing him again and hope that he would wrench her free from her captors’ grasp. Her elation was short-lived; she hissed when the knife carved a second cut into the skin of her neck.

Fíli halted in his attack, his eyes darting to her and then to the one who stood beside her. “Nárin, you conniving son of a goblin whore,” he growled.

To his left, Kíli drew his bow again, but the dark-haired dwarf slid behind her.

“Enough!” He bellowed. His arm pinned her against the pillar in an iron embrace. “Drop your weapons or I’ll cut off her head for you to bring back home!”

He pressed his blade further into the cut. The sting turned into a sharp burn and Brea screeched in pain. She tried to hoist herself onto her toes to escape the knife, but every movement was a torture.

“Fíli…” she panted, sobbing. Their eyes met across the room. Through her tears she read his frustration and his fear, a helpless rage he struggled to contain lest she suffered the consequences. “Don’t…” she tried to whisper, her voice lost amidst her whimpers of pain.

Never taking his eyes off her, Fíli motioned to his brother to lower his bow. His own arm fell to his side, his knuckles white on the handle of his sword.

“I said, drop your weapons.”

Fíli clenched his jaw. Brea could see how much it cost him to submit to Nárin’s command, and to admit his defeat. Still he obeyed, throwing his blade to the ground. Kíli swore as he imitated him, his face a mask of fury.

Brea wrung her hands in anguish when she remembered Nárin’s promise. He’d now kill Fíli in cold blood, as he’d told her he would, and this time there was nothing she could to save him. She knew that Nárin would make a gruesome show of it, a meaningless, agonizing, wasteful ending that would only serve to satisfy his craving for cruelty. Brea would rather he’d killed her first, so that she wouldn’t have to watch him rob her of the one she loved.

“The crown princes of Erebor have come to the rescue of a damsel in distress,” Nárin drawled below her right ear, “How noble. Now kneel.”

“Let her go.” Fíli’s voice was hoarse and strained. “Release her. You have us disarmed, she’s of no use to you now.” No matter how it cost him to beg his enemy for mercy, he was pleading for her life.

“I don’t see why.” Nárin pulled the knife away from her neck, but Brea could feel it hovering beside her throat, an unspoken threat to force Fíli into submission. Blood trickled down her cleavage. “I have you all, to do what I please.”

He reappeared beside her and gave a short command in his language. The remaining dwarf smacked the flat of his blade on Fíli’s shoulder, driving him to his knees before her without a word. Kíli yelled and cursed, but a wave of the sword above Fíli’s neck dissuaded him to approach. Brea watched him pace, helpless, his hands balled into fists.

“I have to say, I’m disappointed.” Nárin lowered his weapon at last. “I expected you to have more fight in you. The famous line of Durin is not so powerful after all. Ah, well.”

He reached out to run a finger along Brea’s collarbone, sucking on the blood he collected. Brea turned away in disgust. Fíli growled wordlessly, but a tap of the sword on his cheek prevented him from lunging forward.

“What do you say?”

Nárin bunched his fist in her hair, tugging harshly to force her to look at him. “I think it’s time to end this once and for all. Do you agree?”

Brea shook her head violently, uncaring about the pain the movement provoked. “Please don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t kill him!” She turned her tear-stained face towards Fíli’s kneeling figure. “You shouldn’t have come! Now he’s going to kill you, and I can’t stand to watch you die, I can’t!” She sagged down against the pillar, her body wracked by sobs of despair.

“Brea.”

Fíli was watching her, the dwarf’s blade gleaming ominously beneath his chin. His face was drawn, but his eyes were soft and pleading. “If I told you I was sorry for leaving you, for failing to protect you, would you believe me?”

She nodded, swallowing her tears. In their current situation Brea would’ve acquiesced to anything, should it relieve his conscience in the last moments of his life and make his death a bit sweeter. But his words soothed her soul as well with the knowledge that what they’d shared hadn’t been a lie after all.

Nárin sniggered. “Aww, how charming.” His voice lost its sweetness when he commanded: “Kill him.”

“No!” Brea screamed as she lunged forward, the ropes biting into her ribs and tearing at her skin. In the haze of tears and despair, all she could see was Fíli’s calm, determined face. But his last words weren’t for her.

“Brother, remember your promise.”

The henchman swung his blade in a wide arc that would cut through Fíli’s neck. Kíli’s scream joined her own as he leaped towards his brother.

A howl of agony resounded as the henchman suddenly dropped his weapon, a thick, black arrow sticking from his hand. His blade clattered to the floor and skidded towards Kíli, who kicked the sword into his hand and slashed towards his opponent.

The spray of blood splattered Brea’s face and caught Nárin across the chest. He cursed and shifted his grip on his knife, advancing on Fíli, who yelled out a battle cry and lunged at him in return. They collided mid-way, Fíli’s momentum sending them crashing against one of the pillars of the hall.

The crumbling, rotten beam broke under their weight and they toppled to the ground, a flurry of fists and steel.

The building groaned, the floor swayed under Brea’s feet. The pillar at her back tilted, leaning sideways as the ground sank in. Burned joists rained around her, crashing through the flooring and plunging into the murky waters below.

In a heartbeat Kíli was beside her, a dagger in his hand. He sliced at the ropes that bound her, his footing unsteady as the building shook and sagged around them.

“We’re sinking!” Brea yelled out as he grabbed her wrist and dragged her towards the door. “You must save Fíli!” She craned her neck to spot him amidst the falling debris.

“No!” Kíli gave a sharp tug on her arm. “I promised him I’d get you out of here first!”

The torches hissed as the building lurched downward, the water rising in the farthermost part of the room. Darkness engulfed them, the moonlight outside drawing out the contour of the door. Brea ran, stumbling, urged on by Kíli’s grip on her wrist, until they barged onto the walkway.

Behind them, the door disappeared beneath the pier, an eruption of bubbles marking the spot.

“Brea!” Bard’s voice called out before he grabbed her by the shoulders. Brea noticed the longbow in his hand. “Are you alright?” He searched her face, grimacing at the cuts and bruises he saw.

She ripped out of his embrace, lunging towards the end of the dock, where the turret of the records building was sinking into the roiling waters of the lake. “Fíli!” she screamed into the darkness, leaning down to try and spot him under the surface.

Kíli stood beside her, his own face the reflection of her anxiousness. His eyes never left the water, as if hoping to see his brother resurface any moment now.

“Brea, stop!” Bard cried out, “Don’t go in, this is folly!” He caught her by the arm as she was about to dive. “You’ll drown in the darkness and the cold.” His face softened. “I’m sorry. You have to let him go.”

She ceased to struggle, allowing him to pull her away from the edge. Kíli’s scream of anguish shattered the silence and broke what remained of her heart, as the younger dwarf fell to his knees before his brother’s watery grave. He called out his name over and over, his voice growing hoarse with exhaustion with every scream.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

When Bard leaned down to listen, Brea slithered out of his grip and ran. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let Fíli go without a fight at least as courageous as his own.

“Brea, no!” were the last words she heard before the dark waters closed in on her and the cold knocked the air from her lungs.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

_“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”  
Neil Gaiman_

oOoOoOo

_November 7 th, T.A. 2941_

Brea was lost within the silent, heavy darkness, which at times was cold as ice, and at times burned like a furnace. Her lungs ached, her head pounded with every heartbeat, and though she widened her eyes, there was little she could see.

The Long Lake was deep and still under the surface, its waters troubled only by the bubbles that rose from the sunken building below her. Brea swam, fighting against her own skirts that impeded her efforts, pulling on her arms and kicking until she could reach the balustrade of the upper floor. The light that reached so deep down was scarce; only a few rays of moonlight filtered through the water, reflecting on the façade.

The windows had burned away during the fire, and the remaining holes stared back at her like empty sockets. Brea grabbed the casement and pulled herself into the darkness. It seemed that the silence around her increased, if such a thing was possible, wary of her intrusion. She’d entered another world, one that belonged to the fish and the dead.

Brea startled when an eel passed in front of her. It paused to examine her, its beady eyes glistening with curiosity.

“He’s not here,” it said, “He’s gone.”

She coughed out a burst of bubbles and her chest constricted painfully, the weight of the water pressing against her ribcage. Ignoring the warning of the eel, she dove deeper.

The water grew warmer as she progressed, heated by the lights of the torches that glimmered below. The fish were circling a body that floated under her feet, nibbling at the swollen fingers. His armor shone dully in the moonlight, but Brea was relieved to see that his hair was dark, not golden. The hilt of a familiar dagger protruded from his chest.

“Fíli!” she called out, turning around frantically. “Where are you?”

Her voice echoed in the surrounding gloom and the fish scattered. The last of her air pressed against her lips, tightening her throat. Her arms and legs grew leaden, her movements sluggish.

She saw him then, drifting across the hall, his blond hair a halo around his face. His eyes were closed, and his cheekbone was bleeding from a deep gash. The blood attracted more fish; they caught him by the armor and started to drag him off into the darkness.

“Fíli!”

Brea gathered what strength she had left to catch up and grab his hand. She kicked and pulled him up, towards the distant surface, fighting against the efforts of the fishfolk to retain him. Her resistance appeared to annoy them.

“Don’t struggle!” they told her in Oín’s voice. “You need to rest.”

Brea’s eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion. Each one of her movements was painful, each inhale a burn within her chest. Brea panted as she swam, her vision grew blurry. Maybe they were right, and she should pause and catch her breath?

Above her head, the windows shone white with the light of the moon, a promise of survival for Fíli and herself should she manage to reach them. The water around her started to boil, the bubbles rising from the lake floor and scalding her when they touched her skin.

Brea moaned and grit her teeth, but didn’t let go of Fíli’s hand. He was the anchor that tied her to life, despite his weight and his inability to help her. It was Brea’s turn to save him, for she refused to leave him in the cold and the dark. The surface shimmered above them like a broken mirror.

Suddenly his fingers closed around her wrist. Brea watched Fíli’s eyes flutter open, only they weren’t blue but black, like those of the man who’d tormented her. “Brea, let go,” he implored her, “I’m safe, I’m well. Please, you have to rest.”

“No! I won’t let you drown!” She opened her mouth and the water rushed inside, choking her.

It was then that the fish caught up with her. They tugged at her skirts and started to pull her down. Brea kicked at them and tried to swat them away, but they were too small for her to do any harm. Fíli’s hand slipped from her grasp.

“Fíli!” Brea cried out, her fingers clawing at the boiling water. She screamed, writhing and tearing at her clothes, as the fish slipped beneath her shift and ate her flesh.

“She’s burning,” the eel commented as it swam around her, unminding of her suffering. “Hold her down.”

Before Brea’s vision went black, she realized that she knew that voice. “Ivar!” she sputtered, “You’re dead!”

“I am,” he agreed sadly. “Why did you let me go, Brea? Why did you let me die?”

“You left me!” she sobbed, “You chose to leave!”

“And so will he,” her deceased husband whispered into her ear. “So will he.”

oOoOoOo

The sheets were rough and hot beneath her, and her pillow was drenched in sweat. Brea opened her eyes, expecting to see nothing but darkness again, but there was a fluttering light nearby which cast moving shadows onto the walls of the room.

The place itself was unknown to her, with its high ceiling and the carved pillars that surrounded the bed. Her ragged breath was the only sound to break the silence of the room, comforting Brea in the knowledge that she was alone.

She propped herself on an elbow to try and determine where she was, wincing at the pain that flared in her chest. Her feet pressed against the footboard as she did it; the surface was cold and smooth under her touch. Her pillow was squished against the headboard, so that Brea’s length barely fit between them. A frame of stone and a short mattress could only mean one thing; Brea had been sleeping in a dwarven bed.

But where was Fíli? Had she managed to pull him out of the lake, or had it all been a nightmare? Her memories were clouded, uncertain; she remembered the feeling of his skin beneath her fingers, cold and rough, and the burning sensation of the water in her lungs, but nothing more.

And if he was dead, why was she still alive?

The candle flickered as the door cracked open. Light poured in from the corridor and a silhouette shuffled into the room, carrying a tray laden with bowls and vials. Brea recognized Oín’s coiled beard from afar.

He froze in surprise when he saw her staring at him from the bed.

“By Mahal, you’re awake!”

He set down his tray on a nearby table, then moved to sit beside her. Brea jerked the covers over her chest with both hands, eyeing him warily. Oín chuckled.

“I see your strength’s returned.” Before she could protest, he lay a hand on her brow, nodding in approval at what he found. “No more fever… Good.” His gaze softened. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“What happened?”

Her mouth was dry, her voice hoarse from unuse. He must’ve noticed, as he fetched her a cup of something that Brea found to be water infused with herbs, though the taste was unknown to her. The cool liquid trickled down her throat, soothing the ache and making her realize how thirsty she was.

“From what I’ve heard, you dived into the lake and swam under the ice to save our king’s life. Again.” Oín poured her another cup, which she swallowed greedily.

“So… He’s alive?” she asked. He nodded, busying himself with the contents of the tray.

“He lives, but no thanks to him or his brother.” Oín sighed. “Between the two of them I’ve had to mend more wounds than ever before in my life. Even their father had more sense, may he rest in peace.”

He took the goblet from her hands and pushed her gently back against the clammy pillow. “Rest,” he instructed. “I’ll send him in before he wears a path in front of the door.”

Joy engulfed her at the knowledge that Fíli was so close, and that she’d get to see him again, but her husband’s insidious voice rang in her ears. Fíli wasn’t hers to have and to love, and their reunion was like to be a goodbye.

Brea obeyed Oín’s advice with reluctance, her eyes fixed on the door as he exited. A few words were exchanged before Fíli’s golden hair appeared in the opening. Brea watched him approach, his step uncertain as if he didn’t truly believe that she was awake. When he saw her looking at him he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Brea noticed that the cut on his cheekbone was closed and mending.

“So you are awake,” he whispered as he perched himself on the edge of the bed. His hand found hers and their fingers entwined. Brea’s heart fluttered in her chest with every touch.

“I feared I’d lose you.”

His other hand moved to her face, brushing against her cheek and trailing down her throat. Brea closed her eyes, holding her breath as he pushed her chin upwards gently to examine her cuts. His scent was leather and herbs and his own skin, warm and sunny.

“I’m sorry for what happened.”

He was caressing her face again. His thumb grazed her lower lip, and Brea bit back a moan. Pulling away was the hardest, most violent effort she’d ever had to accomplish.

“Your… Your queen wouldn’t approve of you doing this,” she croaked.

Her skin was cold where his hand had been seconds ago. Brea opened her eyes to see him look at her in apprehension.

“Brea, I…” He bit his lip and glanced away. “I can explain.”

She disentangled her fingers from his, her chest aching as if it were her own heartstrings she was pulling apart. He seemed in pain as well, and she longed to spare him the trouble and the shame.

“There’s no need. I think I understand.”

Fíli’s brows knitted in confusion. “Do you? I thought that…”

His obvious discomfort was proof enough of his embarrassment about his infatuation, and his unjust behavior towards his wife. He was an honorable man gone astray, weakened by bloodloss and homesickness, but the time had come to end this affair. Brea would spare him any further grief, even if it killed her.

“Fíli, please. I don’t want to hear it.” She turned away and pulled on the covers so that she wouldn’t have to see his face. “Please, just go.”

He lingered beside her for a moment, as if waiting for her to change her mind. Brea clenched her teeth, holding back the tears until a shift of the mattress told her that he’d left, his heavy footsteps echoing in the distance.

Only when the door had closed with a click did she give way to her sadness, sobbing into the pillow until it could no longer absorb a single tear.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

_“Hearts rebuilt from hope resurrect dreams killed by hate.”  
Aberjhani_

oOoOoOo

_November 7 th, T.A. 2941_

Oín came in to check on her later that day, but Brea pretended to be asleep. She hadn’t touched the plate of food that he’d left for her, nor moved from her position under the covers. Her tears had long since dried out, exhaustion taking over grief.

As her ears grew accustomed to the surrounding silence, Brea started to distinguish sounds beyond the doors of her room, the voices and footsteps of the inhabitants of the mountain. As the hours passed and the hour grew late, the noise died down.

When the last footsteps had faded, Brea rose from her bed and looked for her dress, but it was nowhere to be found. She was mortified to see that she was wearing someone else’s shift, a garment wide but too short; the hem brushed her calves just below the knee, leaving her lower legs exposed to the cold air.

Wrapping herself into the blanket, Brea tiptoed to the door and gave it a tentative push. The effort winded her and she coughed into the crook of her arm. The door opened in silence into a long, wide corridor. Torches were set at regular intervals along the walls to keep the darkness at bay.

The hallway was silent, and not a sentinel in sight. After her abduction and her confinement inside a windowless room under the mountain, Brea longed for a gulp of fresh air to clear her thoughts. She listened, trying to determine where the exit could be, but it was her feet who told her the way. A draft tickled her ankles; the chill raised the hairs on her calves, sending a shiver up her legs. Barefoot, with her cover for clothing, Brea padded towards the source of the chill.

The passage ended in a crossroads, with identical corridors to her left and her right. She followed her instinct, heading to where the ground felt colder. After what seemed like an endless walk in near-darkness, with only the pitter-patter of her feet to mark the time, Brea arrived into the vastest, gloomiest hall she’d ever seen. The whole palace of Dale could fit inside the space, leaving some room for the gardens and the plaza. The vault was hidden in darkness, and even the many torches that lined the walls could not bring sufficient light to the immensity of the chamber.

Brea hesitated. The cold air was coming in gusts now, the wind singing through cracks in stone somewhere nearby. When Brea’s eyes got used to the dark, she understood that she was facing the old entrance to the mountain.

The starry night sky peeked through the pile of boulders and slabs that blocked the passage, and the wind howled as it swept through the barricade. Brea searched for a way through, but there was none. There was, however, a makeshift staircase that crept along the wall, up onto the ramparts of Erebor.

Her blanket held against her with one hand and grasping at the stones with the other, Brea climbed up slowly, pausing mid-way to catch her breath. Her sojourn in cold water had made her sick enough to affect her breathing, and she rasped and wheezed by the time she reached the top.

As soon as she set foot on the ramparts, the icy wind of winter almost blew her covers away, sweeping her hair from her face in angry gusts. She pulled them tighter against her body and took a few steps towards the edge.

The plain lay before her, open and pale, the distant lights of Dale shimmering to the south. Everywhere she’d been before, the Lonely Mountain had loomed somewhere on the horizon. Now that she was inside, the rest of the world seemed to be at hand’s reach. Brea inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. The cold air burned her windpipe and her lungs, cleansing them of the bitter sobs that still lingered inside.

“Careful, now. Don’t come too close to the parapet, the stones are uneven there, and treacherous.”

Brea jumped at the sound of the voice. She turned around to face an elderly dwarf, older than any she’d seen before. His beard was white and lush, forking at its end into two symmetric curls. He was sitting on a boulder with his back against the mountain.

“You must be Brea.” He smiled kindly and rose. “Balin, at your service.” He bowed, as it was customary to do for dwarves.

“I am.” She was disappointed to find someone up here, as she’d craved solitude and silence to clear her thoughts, but to leave now would be impolite; not to mention that she had no desire to go back into the gloom of her chamber.

He strutted over to stand beside her. “Tis a clear night,” he commented, his eyes on the stars. “A beautiful night.” He glanced over at her. “Did you come to admire your kingdom?”

Though his tone held no mockery, Brea bristled at his question. “My kingdom?” she snarled, “Are you making fun of me?”

Her feet were growing numb with the cold, and she started shivering. The prospect of returning to her bed didn’t seem so dismal after all. She looked away, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat.

To his credit Balin didn’t appear shocked by her outburst, as if he’d somehow come to expect it. “Ah, I see. Tell me, did you speak with the lad?” At her puzzled expression he clarified: “What exactly did Fíli tell you about this… queen of his?”

Brea couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed at his question. “He didn’t.” She gnawed at the nails of her right hand. “I’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway. I don’t want to know.”

“Understandable.” He shifted on his feet. “Now, I beg your pardons, mistress, but how… close did you and the lad get, while he was in Dale?”

A fierce blush creep up Brea’s cheeks. “That’s none of your business,” she snapped, pulling her blanket closer around her chest, aware of how shameless she must look with her exposed calves.

Balin retreated, his palms raised in a sign of peace. “I mean no offense, just…” He hesitated. “Did you, perchance, share a meal? And a bed?”

“Why, I…” Brea halted, remembering their moments in the small room under the roof. How she’d tasted his food for salt, not paying attention to the fact he used the same spoon. How she’d woken in his warm embrace, still clothed and fully rested for the first time in days.

“Yes, but…” Her blush deepened, and she felt grateful for the darkness. “We never…”

Balin smirked. “And did he, perchance, offer you something before he left?” he inquired shrewdly. “A weapon, perhaps?”

Brea frowned. “He gave me a dagger. How did you know?”

He sighed and took a few steps towards the parapet, propping himself against the stone and gazing towards the plain. “We dwarves have an old custom,” he began, “One that predates the rites of marriage as they are currently practiced. The law of three, it is called. It states that a man and a woman only need three conditions to be considered husband and wife before the maker: to willingly share food and bed, with no requirements about the how and the when.” He shot her a meaningful look. “The rite is then completed with the offering of a weapon which, if it is accepted, seals the bond.”

Realization dawned on her. “Do you mean that… That Fíli and I…”

“Are married, yes.” He smiled and patted her arm. “You are queen of Erebor, and of that brave, foolish young lad I call a king.”

oOoOoOo

Of course, it all made sense once she knew the truth. Her abduction and Nárin’s allusions to her king, as well as Fíli’s behavior in her room, earlier that day. Brea’s stomach twisted with guilt at the memory of her last words. She’d likely broken his heart, just as she thought he’d broken hers; but her own heart was now mended and bursting with hope, while Fíli’s was still in pieces.

Balin had watched her quiver and pace, wringing her hands in regret, determined to find Fíli and beg his forgiveness. “He’s a kind lad,” he’d said, trying to console her, “Not one bad bone in his body. He’s young, and brash, but less so than his brother.”

He’d wrapped her shoulders in his own cloak. “You stay here,” he’d advised her, “I know the lad. Before the night is through he’ll come up here to think and vent. You’ll get your chance then.”

It was hard to tell how long it’d been since Balin had left her atop the barricade, and whether morning was still far away. Brea nested on a boulder beneath his cloak, her feet drawn against her for warmth. The wind didn’t howl as loud or blow as strongly in that corner of the ramparts, and Brea found herself admiring the stars. A mere hour before, their light had seemed cold and distant to her; now they shone with hope.

She’d been so absorbed in her contemplation that she almost missed the silhouette that emerged at the other end of the barricade. Under the moonlight, Fíli’s hair was silver rather than gold. He took a few steps towards the ramparts and rested his hands against the stone. Brea watched him from her corner, unmoving, waiting for the right moment to make her presence known. Though she still longed for his forgiveness, something about simply being close to him soothed her.

Fíli sighed as he took in the landscape that lay below. “Well, you’ve fucked up this time,” he muttered bitterly, “You’ve gone and lost her.” He blew on his hands, rubbing them together. Brea could see him shiver in the wind.

“You haven’t,” she spoke, rising from her seat. “Not yet.”

He jumped, spooked by her voice, before eyeing her in disbelief. “Brea? What are you doing here?” He noticed her bare feet and her attire. “By Mahal, you must be freezing!”

Brea saw the concern on his face as he took a few tentative steps towards her, but he stopped too far away for her to reach him. “You should go back to your room,” he mumbled, “You’ll catch your death up here.”

“You haven’t lost me,” Brea repeated, ignoring his advice. She shivered as the wind picked up the cloak and tried to tear it away. “I was angry and hurt, and I thought you had someone else, that you were married…” She took a step in his direction.

He had the grace to look ashamed. “I tried to tell you…”

“I know. Balin told me.” She gestured to the cloak. “He explained the law and its conditions. But there’s still one thing I don’t understand.” Another step, and she was at arm’s length. “Why did you do it?”

Fíli opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Balin had warned her, though. Brave and kind, but stubborn was the new King under the Mountain, her husband.

“You could’ve stopped at two,” she whispered, reaching out for his hand.

When at first he didn’t move, Brea thought that the pain she’d caused was beyond repair, and that his pride had been hurt too badly to forgive. She sighed in disappointment, about to pull back, when he took her hand and raised it to his lips. His mouth was warm on her knuckles as he kissed each one tenderly before moving to the next.

Brea gulped. “You could’ve just left, I would never have blamed you about it…”

Fíli turned her palm upwards and planted a kiss upon her wrist, where her pulse was beating right under her skin.

“You could’ve… Oh.”

His other hand slid beneath her cloak and came to rest on her waist, pulling her closer, gently but firmly. Brea closed the distance between them with one last step, her stomach tingling at the closeness, feeling the heat of his body through her shift.

Fíli laced his fingers with hers before his hand moved towards her neck and into her hair. Brea felt him pull her down and yielded, closing her eyes, until her lips brushed against his, and his tongue demanded entry into her mouth. He tasted of mead and smoke, his lips hot and demanding, as he claimed her as a husband and a king. Brea surrendered herself to him completely, tangling her fingers in his braids, molding her body to match his.

He was warm and sure, and she pliant and willing; their embrace possessed an impossible intensity that left her breathless. For the first time since she’d known herself, Brea wasn’t afraid to pass off as wanton. She moaned into his mouth when he pushed her against the boulder, forcing her to sit and to offer her throat to his kisses. His teeth grazed the vein that pulsed beneath her ear, and Brea heard him growl quietly into her hair.

“I want you,” Fíli murmured, “I’ve always wanted you.”

Brea understood then, beneath the light of the benevolent stars above, that though her husband was not much of a talker, he knew how to get his meaning across.


	27. Epilogue

Epilogue

_“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”  
Martin Luther King Jr._

oOoOoOo

_June 21 th, T.A. 2942_

The sky above Dale was a clear blue, unmarred by the smallest of clouds. The day promised to be hot and dry, and Kíli could already feel the sweat trickling down his back. He wiped his neck with his hand, grimacing as it came off wet and sticky.

Beside him, Balin smirked, dressed in his lightest tunic.

Their ponies trudged up the street, their progression slow amidst the crowd that congested every artery of the city. The townsfolk had poured out into the streets since sunrise to celebrate their first Midsummer in Dale. Music could be heard at every corner, along with the laughter of children and the merchants’ cries about wine and sweets.

Kíli was familiar with the festival, a human equivalent to the dwarvish _Emanan_ , where the shortest night of the year was an occasion to feast and drink and dance all day long. According to Kíli’s memories, the tradition also involved more promiscuous forms of celebration, though he doubted that Bard would allow such forms of cavorting in his city.

As they rode towards the palace, he reflected on how much the city had changed in the last few months.

The winter had been long and bitter, the snows lingering in the valley long after April had come and gone. It had taken the first rays of the summer sun to dislodge the chill that had taken residence between the arms of the Lonely Mountain, but now it seemed that the warmth was here to stay.

After Fíli’s ascension to the throne, almost eight months ago, many of the dwarven families that still resided in the Blue Mountains had moved to Erebor, joining their sons and husbands who’d accompanied Thorin in his quest before pledging their allegiance to his nephew. The mountain wasn’t an empty shell anymore, but rang with the sounds of forges and shimmered with the jewels the masters crafted beneath its vaults.

Dale had benefited from such a migration: farriers, toymakers and smithies had flourished within its streets, the trade flowing freely between the two cities. Even now, as he looked around, Kíli could see human children playing with the youth of his own folk, chasing after each other and flying dragon-shaped kites into the sky.

Indeed, much had changed in such a short time.

The palace loomed ahead, its scarlet vaults restored to their former beauty. The fourteenth part of the treasure had been put to good use, and the city was close to its prosperity of old. The plaza was bustling with people, man woman and child gathered around the bonfire that was being built for the evening. The king of Dale and his children stood apart, flanked by their guards, waiting to welcome the royal delegation from Erebor.

“Prince Kíli, welcome to Dale.” Bard proclaimed and embraced him as soon as Kíli had dismounted.

His children watched the exchange in polite silence, waiting for their turn to greet the dwarves. Sigrid and Bain seemed much too serious and composed for their age, as children who’ve grown during wartime are wont to do. Tilda was fidgeting beside her brother, still only a child, eager to be released from her regal duties to go enjoy the celebration.

“Bard.” Kíli bowed before saluting the rest of the king’s family. Sigrid blushed when he tilted his head before her, a hand on his heart.

“I see that your brother couldn’t make it?” Bard inquired as he invited them to follow him into the gardens.

Kíli smiled. “With his queen so close to her term, Fíli was loath to leave her alone. He sent me in his stead with his apologies.”

“How far along is Brea, now?” Sigrid asked timidly from behind.

“A little more than seven months,” Kíli counted. “Since it’s their firstborn, my brother’s been rather skittish about her health, even though our mother tells him he’s being unreasonable.”

He recalled the many heated conversations between Fíli and his wife, who’d pleaded and cajoled to be allowed to attend the festival. Both Mildred and Dís had sided with her, their mother calling her eldest son a mule for his stubbornness. But no amount of arguing had persuaded Fíli, who’d been balancing between euphoria and terror since the announcement of Brea’s pregnancy.

Bard laughed. “I remember my own frightfulness when Iona was heavy with Sigrid. Send our best wishes to your brother and his wife, and tell them they are quite forgiven.”

The gardens of the palace had been decorated for the celebration, colored ribbons hanging from the canopies and lining the hedges. In the middle, a maypole had been erected and wreathed with flowers. A lively tune was being played by the nearby musicians, and Kíli found himself tapping his foot to the rhythm.

“Will you grant me this dance?”

Sigrid stood before him, her cheeks pink with bashfulness, but her outstretched hand didn’t waver. Kíli grinned.

“It would be my pleasure.” He took her hand and followed her lead into the circle of couples who reeled and bounced around the pole.

The jig made him sweat once again, but he didn’t care. The ambient joy was contagious, the faces open and bright. Couples came together and parted as the music dictated their movements, like the waves of the sea on a stormy day.

They switched partners for a turn, and Kíli found himself facing a young and pretty dwarven lass. Her blue eyes twinkled in merriment, and her cheeks were aflush with the excitement of the dance. Her hand was small in his when they pranced around the pole, breathless with laughter.

Kíli promised himself he’d find her again afterwards and learn her name.

The world had changed, and the dark times were gone. New life was blooming in the valley, and not even the ever-present shadow of the mountain could dampen the hope that had been built over the remains of hate and greed.

The time of dwarves was far from over, and it promised to be fun.

The End


End file.
